Two Geniuses in 221b
by FireIceRagingDetective
Summary: A teenage girl has broken into 221b. She has exceptional skills, with the brain of Sherlock Holmes, the heart of John Watson, and the knowledge of Jim Moriarty. But a demon from her past is chasing her. And no matter how she runs, she can't avoid it. Can Rose escape this dance with Death? Or will she burn, too? Rated T, because I'm paranoid. {Redid Chapter 22, check it out!}
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Rose

"Sorry," Rose gasps as she bumps into someone. She almost falls, but the guy she runs into puts a hand out to steady her.

"Watch where you're going next time," the surly man snaps. Rose chances a quick glimpse at him. _Tall, lean, dark curly hair. Wearing a dark blue scarf and a long coat. Must have a flair for the dramatic. His hand, when he reached out to steady me, was smooth and uncalloused. He doesn't work with his hands, then. Obviously in a hurry. But why would he be in such a hurry at ten o'clock at night? Must be his job. But who works at ten at night? Policemen, firemen, doctors, bakers. Policeman, most likely, but no uniform or badge. Plainclothesman? No, didn't have the right attitude or demeanor. Private detective? But police don't consult private detectives. Hmmm._

"I'm so sorry. He doesn't mean it," says a shorter man behind the first man. "He's a little tactless at times. Most of the time. Are you alright?"

Rose snaps her head to look at the other man. _With the first guy, obviously. By the eye-roll almost heard in his voice, he apologizes for the first man a lot. Shorter than the first man, but taller than me. Short, cropped blonde hair. Hard to tell in the light of the streetlamp, but his face looks slightly tanned. He has more muscle than the first guy. Holds himself straight and sturdy. Military, for sure. Abroad, maybe. In either Afghanistan or Iraq._

Rose looks at both men. "Fine." With that, she heads along her way. She almost turns the corner, and then glances back to the two men. They had been picked up in a taxi. Their house, which they just came out of, was now empty. Rose grins. She walks back around their flat, and spots an open window. "Bingo," she breathes to herself. She climbs up the fire escape and through the open window. She is in a bedroom. Turning on a flashlight she had pulled from her backpack, Rose looks around the strange room.

_Almost certainly the second man's room. It was completely clean, almost too clean. The bed had hospital corners. Military cleanliness. The only thing messy in the entire room, the only thing out of place, is a first-aid kit. Its been emptied, and some of the contents were on the dresser and floor. _Rose glances through it._ Well used. And there's more than the typical first-aid supplies in there. Must be a doctor. _She spotted a cane in the corner of the room._ Thrown there, not been thought about for a long time. He wasn't walking with a limp earlier. Must have a psychosomatic injury in one of his legs. _Rose grins to herself._ So, the shorter man was an army doctor, home invalidated, maybe from Afghanistan or Iraq. He and the taller man were flat mates, not lovers. Not enough dressers or wardrobes in one room. Plus, there was no way two people kept a shared room this clean._

Rose drops the grin. There was no way she could make a bed look that nice after she'd slept in it. She just needed a place to sleep for the night. The two men probably won't be back for at least four or five hours. Plenty of time for a quick nap. She could just sleep on the floor. She'd slept on worse, and besides, it was carpet. Rose places her backpack under her head for a pillow and falls into a restless sleep.

Rose feels a touch on her wrist. _Someone is taking my pulse. Who? Doesn't matter._ Without opening her eyes, Rose moves suddenly, kicking the feet out from under the person taking her pulse. According to the heaviness of the landing and the masculine groan that accompanied it, it was a male she kicked. In the same motion as kicking the man, Rose draws a small black handgun from her pocket and pointed it at the man. All this happened, without her eyes open. Rose opens her eyes and looks at the man. It was the army doctor, the short blonde man. This was his room, and she almost injured him. He looks afraid, and surprised. More of the former. Rose hears another gun cock. She keeps the gun pointed at the doctor, but looks toward the sound of the other gun. It's the taller man from earlier. He doesn't look pleased.

The dark-haired man utters a warning in a low, melodic voice that would have been beautiful, if it wasn't filled with so much anger. "Drop the gun." Rose puts the gun back in her pocket. She helps the doctor back on his feet. She looks toward the taller man again, to find that he hasn't dropped the gun.

"Sherlock, you can drop it. I'm fine, just got the wind knocked out of me," the doctor smiled. The tall man reluctantly drops the gun. Turning to Rose, the doctor asks, "What was **that**?"

Rose apologizes. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm so, very, very sorry. I should go now." She picks up her backpack and turns to climb out of the window again.

"How did you know I was a doctor? And don't tell me you figured that out on your own. Nobody's that smart," the doctor baits her.

Rose stops. She turns around to face him, face blank.

"Your first aid kit. It's been well used, and there are supplies in there not typically found in a first-aid kit. Not to mention your calm nature. Most people would be shouting at a stranger they found in their bedroom. I felt you take my pulse before I kicked you; you were concerned for my well-being. Your hands are not calloused, but they have seen a lot. They are a worker's hands. But, you have the delicate touch only a surgeon would have. All signs point to that of a doctor."

"What were you doing in my room?"

Rose snorted. "I thought that much was obvious, Doctor. I was sleeping. Quite pleasantly, too, until you woke me. I really should go. Any more stupid questions?"

"Hold on a minute," the doctor stated. He glanced back at the taller man behind him and smiled. "Is there anything else you can tell about me?"

Instead of answering, Rose asks to borrow the doctor's phone. She needs to call her friend, she says. After hanging up, Rose replies, "I'm not a circus act, here to do tricks for your amusement."

To which the army doctor answers, "No, I know, but I think it's really amazing that you know so much from a single glance. It's really quite extraordinary."

The taller man behind him, Sherlock, snorts derisively.

Rose ignores the snort and studies the doctor. She fixes her piercing eyes on the doctor. "What I say makes people wince. I will be blunt and to the point. I will not spare your feelings. Do you still want to hear this?"

The doctor smiles at her. "Yes."

Rose takes a deep breath, and begins.

"You've recently been invalidated home, from either Afghanistan or Iraq. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself say military. You were very calm when I pointed my gun at you. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. Says abroad, but not sunbathing. You have a cane-" Rose gestured to the metal cane, "-but you hardly ever use it. You have a psychosomatic limp in one leg. Therefore, the injury was traumatic. You have a therapist, army recommended. Now, your phone. You're on army pension. This is your only luxury item. But it's got scratches and nicks and dents in it, from being in the same pockets as keys and coins. So, it's a gift. Gift from whom? From your sister. Your sister has recently divorced from her wife. The engraving points out the name and affection behind the gift. The kisses signify romantic attachment. The cost of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. This is a relatively new phone, only six months off the market. Six months, and she's giving it away? If your sister's wife left your sister, your sister would have kept this. But no, your sister left her wife. She wanted to get rid of it. She gave you the phone to keep in touch, but you're not going to her for help. Did I mention that you're on an army pension? You would want cheap living accommodations, and you didn't go to your sister for help? Maybe you're uncomfortable around her, maybe you don't like the fact that she's gay, maybe you don't like her drinking. See the scratches? When your sister plugs in the phone to charge at night, her hands are shaking. They scratch the phone because she doesn't have to coordination to plug it in right the first time. This is your room, as evident by the cleanliness that only comes after you've been in the military. And plus, he-," Rose motioned toward the man behind the doctor, "-could not keep anything this clean, bet you ten quid. You two are flat mates, not lovers. Not enough furniture in the room, and there's no way a shared room is **this** clean. The phone is still pretty new to you; you're not used to it yet. You're having a hard time adjusting to the technology; most old people do. There. Anything wrong?"

The army doctor looks at Rose, mouth agape. Then, he turns to look at Sherlock. The doctor starts laughing. Eventually, he falls on the floor. Tears of laughter stream down his face.

Rose looks on. "Apparently, I got it all right."

The doctor recovers from his laughing fit and looks at Rose. There was something in his eyes, an emotion that Rose could not quite identify. Rose stares back. The doctor makes a decision, and smiles at Rose.

"You don't have a place to stay." It wasn't a question, and Rose nods. "Would you like to stay the night with us?"

Rose surprises herself and nods again. The doctor led her out to the living room.

"The sofa is really comfortable, actually. Blanket's right here," the doctor pulls a blanket out of a cupboard, "and I'm upstairs if you need anything. Really, you should ask me before you go anywhere. Don't open the fridge, and Sherlock would appreciate it if you didn't disturb his experiments. That's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. I'm John Watson. What's your name?"

Rose feels overwhelmed. _These people barely know me, and they are giving me a place to sleep? A blanket, too?_ She slowly sinks down and sits on the sofa in disbelief.

"Why are you doing this?" Rose chokes out. "Why are you being so kind? What do you want from me?"

John looks bewildered. "Why would I want anything from you? I'm just trying to help you. You need a place to stay, and I thought you might want a bed, or at least a sofa. I don't want anything from you."

Rose glances up at John. She feels a rush of emotion. She gives John a genuine smile. "Thank you."

Rose sprawls out on the couch. She pulls the warm, woolly blanket over her and sighs in contentment. She falls asleep immediately. For the first time in a long while, there were no nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock

Rose sprawls out on the couch. She pulls the warm, woolly blanket over her and sighs in contentment. She falls asleep immediately. For the first time in a long while, there were no nightmares.

After the girl fell asleep, John turns to Sherlock. "Poor girl. I wonder what she's been through."

Sherlock glances at John. "Do you want me to give you my analysis of her?"

"No. Something tells me that the girl on our couch has been through really awful things. At least wait until the morning to tell me your analysis." Then John chuckles. "How did she know that Harry was a girl? Even you didn't get that, Sherlock."

"I know, John."

"She knows how to use the gun, obviously. D'you think I should take it from her? She might, I don't know, turn over in her sleep and kill herself by accident."

"I would advise against it. Remember what happened the last time you surprised her?"

"Oh, that was just luck."

"John, she had a gun pointed at you! And you're lucky I was there. It would have been quite tedious to clean your blood out of the carpets." Sherlock grimaces. He looks at John. "You did not see. That girl, on our sofa, is trained to kill."

"Rubbish! A teenaged girl, be trained to kill, like, like, what? An assassin? Sherlock. That's ridiculous. I'm going up to bed."

Sherlock watches John climb the stairs to his room. He smiles to himself. John. _So caring. And really quite blind sometimes._ He stares at the girl in front of him. She was smiling. _Do all people smile in their sleep?_ Sherlock files that question away for later. _She looks peaceful. She bumped into me, a few hours ago. She probably thought I wouldn't remember her. Stupid girl. No, not stupid. She's no fool. But she is trained to kill._

Sherlock rubs his temple, trying to figure her out. _I don't even know her name. But John probably knows._ He runs up the stairs to John's room. He didn't knock on the door so much as pummel the door.

"John! John!"

"Yeah, what is it, Sherlock?" comes a voice blurred by sleep.

"What's her name?"

"What?"

"What. Is. Her. Name." Sherlock was careful to enunciate properly.

"I don't know."

"What? What do you mean?"

The door suddenly opens to reveal John, in his dressing gown, with an exasperated expression on his face. "I don't know her name, Sherlock. I want to go to bed. Don't wake her up to ask her, she might dislocate your shoulder."

"Yes, yes, of course. Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

_So, John doesn't know her name. She is completely anonymous. She really cannot be traced. If one needed to trace her, they would need a photograph, or some other visual. Not that a picture would really help._ Sherlock supposes that she looks like a normal teenaged girl. _Except she could disarm you and kill you within ten seconds_. Sherlock decides he will watch her, make sure she doesn't leave before he asks her questions.

John sleeps in late. When he comes down the stairs, the girl on the couch, without moving or opening her eyes, calls out to him, "John, can you tell the ugly, insufferable git to stop staring at me? It's really quite unnerving."

John can't quite stop the smile that flickers around his lips.

"I can hear and understand you perfectly well, if that is your concern," Sherlock says to the girl.

"No, I know, but you won't listen to me, you'll only listen to John. John?" she asks expectantly.

"Sherlock, I think you should stop staring at her. She is not going to dematerialize if you look away. And it's weird to watch people when they sleep," John tells him with a huge grin on his face.

The girl opens her eyes and gives John a grateful smile. Then, she glares at Sherlock. "Why the heck were you staring at me while I slept?'

"I was studying you. Plus, I have some questions to ask you." Sherlock replies.

"Same here. But before we do anything further, do you have any food? I'm hungry," the girl says flippantly.

She springs off the couch and heads toward the kitchen. John is going to warn her about the fridge, but he is too late. She has already opened it. "What do we got here? Hmm," she holds up several items. "Eggs, toast, fingers, ham, ears, and fingernails. Lovely. I'm assuming the miscellaneous body parts are for experiments?" she didn't wait for an answer. The girl rummages around in the fridge some more. "I'm feeling like toast, anything for you gents?"

John looks at Sherlock with wonder. _He's amazed that she wasn't put off by the body parts._ Something twitches at the corners of Sherlock's lips.

"I'm good, thanks."

"John? You want anything?"

"Yeah, actually. Scrambled eggs for me, please."

"No problem."

A few minutes later, the girl comes out carrying a plate of eggs for John and a piece of toast for herself.

"Thank you."

"No trouble at all. You have a really neat kitchen, or you would, if all the experiments were cleaned up," remarks the girl. She munches on her toast. Within seconds, the toast has disappeared.

Sherlock observes her. The girl notices it, rolls her eyes, and scowls. John tells the girl between bites, "Last night, what you did-" the girl's face turns blank in the blink of an eye "-was crazy. We could have used you in Afghanistan."

The girl says nothing. For a brief second, she is just lost and alone, infinitely alone. Sherlock feels a pang of sympathy for her, but then the expression is gone. And then Sherlock kicks himself for feeling sympathy for someone who threatened John.

The girl stands. "Thanks for everything, but I should go. Thanks for the sofa, and the toast. It…" the girl struggles to find the right words, "…it was really kind of you. But I really should be going now."

Sherlock jumps out of his chair. _No. She cannot leave. I haven't solved her yet._ "You are not going to leave yet."

"Oh yeah?" the girl crosses her arms and radiates defiance. "And what makes you think that I won't just walk out of here, like I can and will?"

"You are going to stay and play a game. With me. John will keep score. If you don't stay, I will call the police. You don't want to be found. Plus, you own an unregistered firearm. You don't want the police looking for you, especially since John and I can accurately describe you. And your clothes. If you win, you leave, and John and I won't mention your presence here to anyone, or ask about you anywhere. If I win, you tell me your name, where you got your gun, and your life story up until this point."

"What game?"

Sherlock smirks. This is the best part. "A game of analysis. I analyze you, you analyze me. Whoever can deduce the most things about the other person wins. Everything you can deduce counts as a point. And," Sherlock pauses, for effect, "if one deduces something incorrectly, the other person wins. Automatically."

"How will I know you're telling the truth during the game?"

"Valid question." Sherlock walked over to John and placed a hand upon John's head. "I swear, on John Watson's life, that I will tell the truth during this game. You should do the same."

"Sherlock, if she doesn't want to talk about herself, that's okay. Not everyone is a puzzle to be solved," John scolds, looking up at the taller man. "She doesn't have to play if she doesn't want to."

The girl regards John and Sherlock in turn and bows her head in thought. Sherlock almost sees the thoughts racing through her head. He cannot see her face. Then, she raises her head. And she smiles, a mixture of cunning, determination, and resignation. "Mr. Holmes, it would be an absolute honor to play your game. And it will be my pleasure when I win." She walks over to John and places her hand on his head. She looks Sherlock in the eye and declares, "I swear, on John Watson's life, that I will tell the truth during this game."

The girl and Sherlock shake hands. John procures a pad of paper and a pen. He smiles. A battle of giants. This should be interesting.

John sits on the sofa, pen at the ready. The girl sits in John's chair, hands clasped together, leans slightly to the left. Sherlock sits in his chair, hands folded under his chin.

The girl speaks first. "The game, Mr. Holmes, is on."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John

The girl speaks first. "The game, Mr. Holmes, is on."

The girl and Sherlock stare at each other, daring the other to make the first move. Finally, the girl murmurs, "You're right-handed. Your turn."

"Correct. You're ambidextrous," Sherlock whispers back.

"Ambidextrous?" John asks, incredulous.

"Yes, John. She can use both her left and right hands with equal proficiency for most tasks. Pay attention." Sherlock resumes studying the girl opposite him.

"In your late twenties to early thirties."

"You're fifteen."

"Non-religious."

"Very athletic."

"Violinist."

"You're half Asian."

The girl blinks in surprise. "How did you know that? I don't look Asian in the slightest."

"Oh, please. Your eyes are slightly almond shaped, and a deep brown. But they're not slanted. Your face is rounder than most. Your hair is not brown, not black, and you have natural highlights. To be precise, you're half Japanese. It's a little more difficult to tell the difference between Japanese and Filipinos. Either way, your eyes are a dead giveaway."

"Oh. Okay. What's my other half?" asks the girl.

"Obvious, isn't it? You are a quarter Iranian. And a quarter Scottish. The red highlights made that easy to see."

The girl cracks a smile. "Cool. How do we stand?" the question is directed at John.

"Um, you have four points, Sherlock has seven." John counts. _The girl might stand a chance. I don't know. Both of them are good, but Sherlock has more experience._

The girl swivels her head to look at Sherlock. Her piercing eyes narrow, "You don't eat much. Or sleep much, for that matter. You believe that you can function better without those trivial matters." Her voice drips sarcasm.

"You're wearing dark clothes. Black jacket, dark blue shirt, black jeans, and black Converse trainers. You want to hide, not stand out." Sherlock retorts.

"The landlady owes you a favor."

"Okay, how did you know that?" John asks.

"A nice flat like this? You're on army pension, must I remind you, John? Sherlock might be paid for his work, don't know exactly what he does yet, but give me a minute. But a nice flat, like this one, is worth quite a lot. Neither of you could make enough money, even flat sharing, so the landlady gave you a special rate. Why on earth would she do that? She owes Mr. Holmes a favor. Simple," the girl explains.

Sherlock replies, "You had very close friends, at one point. You still consider them your friends, even if you don't see them often. The bracelet," Sherlock directs a pointed gaze at the girl's wrist "was a gift from a boyfriend, whom you cared for very much. The heart charm with a red gem in the center was enough to tip me off. The infinity ring was from your best friend. You have rarely, if ever, taken either item off, as apparent by the scratches and dents in each piece."

The girl spares a glance at each piece of jewelry and smiles, as if remembering said people. Then she snaps back into observing Sherlock. The girl counters with, "You're asexual. You consider yourself married to your work. You often don't take the time to consider even a friendship with somebody. Why? Because you think you're better than them. You might not have many friends, but those you do consider friends, you're very close with." She pauses, thinking. "Any emotion deeper than boredom or excitement, you suppress. You find emotions messy and not worth your time. Plus, it's easier to work on your cases if you don't have an emotional bias. Oh, you're a consulting detective. Did I mention? Figured that out, too. Anyways, because you suppress your emotions, you find it difficult to understand other people's feelings. To other people, you come off blunt and insensitive because you tell the truth, the way it is. Oh, and someone you don't like is watching you. Cameras and audio recorders all over the flat. I'd guess a parent, but it's not. It's an older brother." The girl stops for breath. Then she considers what to say next.

"You want to prove you're clever, cleverer than anyone else. And you're willing to take risks to prove it. You can't stand being bored, so you need something to entertain you, to puzzle you. Something like me. You couldn't let me leave. You didn't have me figured out yet. But you were willing to take the risk, the risk that I would win, in order to figure me out. Because to you, a puzzle unsolved is unacceptable, completely wrong. You've never met somebody like you before. Somebody who can tell one's life story from a single glance. That's the whole point of this stupid game! So you can stay entertained!" the girl doesn't shout, or even speak loudly. But her tone of voice makes up for it.

John hastily marks down all of the girl's deductions. He glances at the two geniuses. Sherlock remains blank._ 'Course he does_. The girl, though. She is gazing at him behind stone eyes. _Her eyes are flat and dead._ _She is so similar to Sherlock. They both keep their emotions suppressed well enough, but the girl is seething. How can she be so calm? How can she keep her face and body so still, but her voice… Why is she so angry all of a sudden?_

John glances down at the paper. _Geez, she's actually won this. Never would have thought Sherlock would be beaten at his own game._ John remembers an old saying from one of his biology teachers, back in secondary school. An animal will always fight harder if they are threatened and no escape in sight. _She's fought hard. For her freedom,_ John realizes.

"Um, Sherlock, you have thirteen points. You," he says to the girl, "have twenty-eight."

The girl smiles and stands to leave. She picks up her backpack and heads out. Sherlock folds his hands under his chin. He stares at the girl, who is almost to the door. And then, he begins his final deduction.

"You did not have much of a childhood. Lots of trauma when you were young. Probably something to do with your parents. They died, and you can barely remember them." The girl freezes where she is. "You've been on the run for six months. The state of your clothes is awful. You've showered recently, probably at a home for the homeless. But you don't have a spare set of clothes. You're running, hiding. You have a home, you just don't want to go back. Why? They weren't abusing you, not in the usual way. You have too much determination to be pushed around. So why would you run?" The girl holds her head high, defiant and proud, almost daring him to spill her secrets.

Sherlock continues, "The gun is for your protection, of course. So you feel that whoever is after you will kill you. You must have something they want, or something they don't want to get out. But why don't you go to the police? Because you've done things illegal, too. Most likely, you've killed. The way you aimed a gun at John's heart made that clear. Something you said to John last night, 'Why are you being so kind to me? What do you want from me?' Somebody has always wanted something from you, then. Another thing. You hate violence. You would not carry a gun, then, unless you were desperate. You probably don't like violence because it reminds you of whomever you killed."

Sherlock shrugs. "John, I believe that is thirty-two deductions I have to her twenty-eight. I win. Unless, you would like to continue?"

The girl looks impossibly sad again and shakes her head. John wants to throw the pen and paper at Sherlock and tell him to shut up, that the girl doesn't have to say anything if she doesn't want to. _But she did agree to this. And she's been through some tough patches in her life._ John remembered the way she asked him what he wanted from her. Her expression was one of deep suspicion and cynicism. _As if she couldn't believe that anyone would be kind without a reason. Like she couldn't trust anyone. She didn't think Sherlock would beat her. But he did. And now she has to uphold her part of the bargain._

The girl walks over to Sherlock and holds out her hand. Sherlock takes it gingerly, as if she might poison him, or infect him with a parasite.

"You are truly brilliant, Mr. Holmes. Really. Thank your lucky stars you were born ten years before me. You would have been the best, I'm sure. Instead of me," the girl remarks in a hollow tone.

John wonders what she has to hide that is so terrible. _Was she really a killer? That's what Sherlock said, but still! Even Sherlock could be wrong, sometimes._ Even though John only met him a week ago, after the case with the woman in pink, Sherlock has never gotten any major detail wrong. Sure, he got the detail of Harry's gender wrong, but very, very minor detail there.

"The best of what?" Sherlock asks.

"If I'm going to tell you, it's going to be on one condition. You, Mr. Holmes, cannot talk or interrupt me until I've finished. At all. Nothing whatsoever. Not a single word. If you do, I have sleeping patches. After I put one on, I'll fall into a deep, coma-like sleep for twelve hours. And you won't hear the rest of my story until I've woken up. Is that understood?" the girl asks in a voice that could cut steel.

Sherlock nods. John looks at the girl in amazement again. _Sherlock never shuts up. Never. How does a fifteen year old girl have the power to shut him up?_

The girl gazes at her well-worn, black Converse shoes for a moment, thinking. Then she clears her throat and begins.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Author's note:**

**Warning: This chapter explores darker themes. Proceed with caution. **

**Oh, and I've forgotten this on the last couple of chapters: I own nothing, except for Rose. And her back story. Please review, I love to read them! J Enjoy.**

Rose

The girl gazes at her well-worn, black Converse shoes for a moment, thinking. Then she clears her throat and begins.

"Before I tell you guys anything, can I have your promise that you won't tell anyone anything? At least, not without my permission? My story, it's, um, pretty personal, and, just please don't tell anyone, okay?" the girl pleads.

John promises. Sherlock gives her a tiny nod.

"My name is Rose Smith. I had a previous name, but I've given up using it. As far as I'm concerned, my name is Rose. I, uh, I've owned that gun for as long as I can remember. It just, feels right, in my hand. If that makes any sense," Rose chuckles.

"When my parents had me, they were extremely poor. I mean, living in the slums kind of poor. They knew I was intelligent. I took a simplified IQ test, for little kids at age four. I scored high, very, very high. My parents realized they were never going to have the money to give me an education. The night before they sent me to an orphanage, I was kidnapped," Rose breaks off.

"The man in charge was completely insane. He took me a safe distance away and told me to watch my house. Three seconds later, my house erupted into flames. My family was still inside. My mother, my father, and my three year old brother. I screamed, and I got slapped. The man in charge turned to me and told me, 'You're mine, now. You're going to as I say, from now on,' " she says in a flat tone.

John asks hesitantly, "Do you remember the man's name? The one in charge?" He receives a sigh from Rose.

"His name is never said. I didn't even find out his name until three years ago. His name," Rose's voice drops down to a whisper, "is Jim Moriarty."

At that, Sherlock leaps out of his chair. Rose and John look at him. "You've heard of him, then, Sherlock?" Rose asks. He nods. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask a question or make a clever deduction, but then remembers he's not allowed to talk. _His expression is hilarious_, Rose thinks. Sherlock sits down and waves his hand at her, as if to say 'Go on."

"Anyways, after that, Moriarty took me to this house. It was huge, and no, I don't remember where it was. There were other kids there, about twenty. That's where I met Ava. She understood, I think. She told me that her parents died, too. She didn't tell me it would all be okay, but she told me that she'd stick with me. 'Cause all we had was each other. I met Jason that night, too. His parents died as well. The three of us quickly became best friends. We grew up in that house. We had a school, of sorts. We learned all types of science, maths, and stuff. Ava's a genius at numbers, Jason's a scientist, and I was the observer," Rose smiles.

"Did you three ever try to escape? Surely there was some chink in Moriarty's armor. And you're bloody brilliant! You three could have figured out some way," John insists.

"No. Moriarty is smart. He never, ever, allowed us kids a chance to escape. Ever," Rose replies with emphasis.

"So, Moriarty kidnapped you, killed your family, and brought you to his house. And you just let that happen? The girl in front of me wouldn't have allowed that. What happened?" John prods.

"It gets a lot darker. When all the kids turned nine, Moriarty had a field trip planned for us. So, if you turned nine, you and Moriarty went out, at night. He would find a random alleyway and a random person. Moriarty would hand you a gun, silencer and all, and tell you to shoot. I was terrified. I looked into the poor woman's eyes and I couldn't do it. I told Moriarty no. Moriarty dropped the woman and beat me. It hurt. The woman tried to scream, but she was loosing consciousness. He pushed me up against a wall, and told me if I said no again, he'd kill Ava and Jason, and make me watch. I looked into his eyes, and I saw nothing. His eyes were void of any emotion. He handed me the gun again. I took it, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger," Rose chokes.

John walks over to her and wrapped his arms around her. He understood what it was like to end a person's life. Rose, to his surprise, did not sob.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he whispers in her ear. Rose didn't say anything, but she relaxes and leans into him. John just holds her until she is ready to move on.

"After that night, nothing was ever the same. Moriarty tried to find ways to break my spirit. But I didn't allow myself to become his pet, his plaything. I was strong, for Ava and Jason. I killed more people, because if I didn't, Moriarty would kill the only people in the world who I cared about. A few years passed, and Jason and I realized we wanted to be more then friends. Moriarty let some of the older kids go into London sometimes, always supervised, but it was more freedom than we'd had before. He bought me the bracelet. And Ava, Jason, and I got matching rings," Rose pulls off her ring. "We had them engraved. Ava had the 'Forever' ring, Jason had the 'Always' ring, and mine reads 'Together.' "

"How did you escape?" John asks. Rose twists her ring.

"Well, it started on Moriarty's birthday last year. It's the twelfth of November. He always throws a huge party. The kids he's stolen are forced to attend. I heard Moriarty mention my old surname, for whatever reason. My interest was piqued. I snuck into his office during the party and snooped around a bit. I found my file, after a few minutes. I opened it and took a quick look. I saw that he had planned out my kidnapping ever since he had my IQ scores. He meticulously planned to kidnap me. A four year old child. He even went so far as to get a body double for me. The police found four charred bodies in the remains of my house. I was dead, by the official report. The police are imbeciles," Rose laughs hollowly.

Sherlock's lip quirks. Rose continues, "I put the file back, just as I'd found it, but Moriarty probably had cameras on me. He made an announcement during the party and told the kids to line up. We did, because when Moriarty told you to do something, you did it. We lined up in the order we were kidnapped in. I was number thirteen. I heard gunshots. Everyone in line, besides me, had been shot. Including Ava and Jason. They injured, fatally. I was spared. Unlucky thirteen. I talked to them, soothed them, as they died. I did everything I could to help them," Rose stops suddenly.

She pictures their bodies falling to the ground, last expressions frozen eternally on their faces. Jason was looking up the line at her; silently telling her it would be okay. Ava was grinning that crazy grin of hers, forever optimistic. Forever convinced they would be okay.

_Tears? No. No tears. I've cried over them enough. Crying will do nothing. It can't bring them back. It can't bring them back!_ Yet, Rose can't stop the tears from spilling out. She sobs, releasing all her pain. Rose's sobs wrack her body. John hugs her again, and this time, Rose leans into him. She cries until she has no more tears to shed.

"Thank you, John," Rose whispers

"Anytime. No problem," he whispers back.

"I heard Moriarty laughing, after that. I looked up, and he was laughing. I got angry. I always kept my gun in my pocket, and suddenly, it was out. I fired two shots. They both missed; I couldn't aim because of the tears in my eyes," Rose closes her eyes.

"Moriarty stopped laughing. He saw I was dangerous. I had absolutely nothing to lose. I looked in his eyes, and he looked into mine. And he saw hate. I whispered, 'Run,' and he ran. I killed every last one of them, every last attendant, every henchman of Moriarty's. As for Moriarty, he escaped. I've been on the run ever since. Until I met you guys," Rose sighs, her story over.

"So what do you want with me now, Detective? You had me figured out almost from the start, I know you did. Now that I'm no longer a puzzle, what do you want with me?" Rose asks.

Silence falls.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Author's note:**

**This story takes place right after episode 1 of season 1.**

** Guest (sorry, I have no clue how to ID you otherwise): No worries, I'm going to clarify that. Thanks!**

Sherlock

"So what do you want with me now, Detective? You had me figured out almost from the start, I know you did. Now that I'm no longer a puzzle, what do you want with me?" Rose asks.

Silence falls. 

Sherlock contemplates the girl in front of him. _She has nowhere to stay. She's alone. But intelligent. She might come in handy, to double-check deductions with. John is a little lacking in that department, but not by much. _He likes Rose. She was like him. _She understands, at least a little._

"You'll stay here, of course. You can continue to sleep on the sofa until we get you a cot, or something. John will probably figure that out that bit. You can sleep anywhere you like, just don't disturb the experiments. Oh, and call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my brother," Sherlock decides.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to. Right, Sherlock?" John directs the pointed question at the other man, now pacing.

"Of course she's going to want to stay, she has nowhere else to go," Sherlock drawls.

"Um, excuse me, genius," Rose snaps sarcastically, "but I lived quite well on my own for six months."

"You got bored. Aside from needing a place to sleep, you wanted to deduce all you could from the rooms. You just never got caught until last night," Sherlock intones.

Rose stands. "You think you're so smart, don't you? You think you've got everything figured out."

Sherlock stops his pacing and looks at her. "Well, yes."

John says, "Modest and humble, too. His best qualities, in fact."

Rose rolls her eyes and looks at John. "So, where do you think I should sleep? Your couch was really comfortable, actually."

John was going to answer when Sherlock's mobile rang. Sherlock listens to the speaker for a moment, then tells the voice that they'd be there straight away.

"What happened?" John asks.

"Murder. Lestrade wants us to come down, says it's interesting," Sherlock explains with glee. John grabs his coat and heads downstairs to hail a cab.

"You could come with us, if you like," Sherlock offers.

"Why would I want to go see a dead body?" Rose raises an eyebrow.

"You're bored, you have nothing else to do, and I might need your help," he replies.

"The great Sherlock Holmes, need help? Pigs will fly before that day comes," Rose responds.

"Could be dangerous," Sherlock waits.

Rose grins. "Now you're talking." She runs downstairs. Sherlock follows her.

John had found a cab and was waiting for them. They all piled into the cab, and off they went.

"How did you know about Moriarty? No one ever hears of him," Rose questions.

"I heard it from a cabbie, who Moriarty hired to kill people," Sherlock answers.

"Oh. So you've never met him, or seen him?"

"No."

"Okay." They ride in silence for the remainder of the trip. When they reach the crime scene, Rose and Sherlock get out while John pays the cabbie. Anderson greets them.

"Oh, look. It's the psychopath and his pet. Who's the girl?" he gestures toward Rose.

"With me."

"You can't just let anyone in! This is a crime scene, not an amusement park! Children aren't allowed," Anderson rants.

"They let you in, don't they?" Sherlock shoots back. He turns to John and Rose. "Come on, we haven't all day."

The three of them walk over to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan, who are waiting for them in front of an abandoned house.

"Freak. Pet," Donovan says by way of greeting. "And who might you be?" she asks Rose.

"Oh, I'm with them. Nobody important, really," Rose answers softly.

John gives Rose a sideways glance. She seems to have physically made herself smaller. Quieter, more invisible. She has an intimidated expression on her face. Rose notices him looking and gives him a wink.

"Lestrade, what is so interesting about this particular murder?" Sherlock inquires.

"I'll let you figure that out," Lestrade shows him toward the body. Sherlock can hear Donovan whispering to Rose.

"He hasn't hurt you in any way, has he? You can tell me, I'm a policewoman." Rose mumbles something back. _Why is she so quiet now? Back at the flat, she would have chewed Sally's ear off._ "You really should stay away from him. He enjoys these murders, you know," Donovan is saying now. "He's a psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrects. Donovan gives him a glare. Lestrade turns toward them.

"It's really gruesome." He turns toward Rose. "Sweetheart, if you can't handle it, or don't want to see it, just let us know, okay?" Rose nods faintly, looking scared. _Why is she doing that? Why is she so invisible?_

Then they encounter the body. It was a man. His eyes are gouged out, and his chest cavity is open. Blood is everywhere. On the wall behind the man, written in blood, are the words, "Find me. I dare you."

Sherlock looks around. He inspects the body and the writing on the wall. While he's doing this, Rose whispers to John, "Do they bother you?"

John looks at Rose, bewildered. "Who?"

"Donovan and Anderson. Do they bother you?"

"Honestly, they're so annoying sometimes. Why?"

"I'll take care of them for you."

"What? No! Rose!" John whispers furtively.

"Relax. Just make sure Lestrade is watching me," instructs Rose. She walks to the other end of the room. John sighs and gets Lestrade's attention. John turns his body toward Anderson and makes small talk with Lestrade.

Rose steps on Anderson's foot as she walks by him. John thinks he sees her whisper something into the forensic expert's ear. Suddenly, Anderson takes Rose by the shoulders, shakes her violently, and swears at her. Sherlock stops his work and runs over to John.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to step on your foot!" Rose shrieks.

"Let her go!" Sherlock yells.

"Anderson!" Lestrade bellows. Rose whimpers. Lestrade runs over and punches Anderson in the jaw. Anderson snaps out of his rage and looks around.

"Anderson, you're out! Indefinitely!" Lestrade shouts.

"No, it wasn't my fault! She-" Anderson whines.

"OUT! NOW!" Lestrade roars. Anderson backs out of the room and shoots Rose a look of hate.

Lestrade sighs, then turns to Rose. "Are you alright?"

Rose nods yes. Her hands are shaky and she's breathing rapidly. She walks over to John and he gives her a hug. Rose whispers, "Now, get Lestrade out of the room." Rose pulls away and gives John and Sherlock a wink.

John tells Lestrade that he should talk with Anderson. Lestrade, thinking John has a point, follows Anderson out of the room.

Rose sidles up to Donovan and says in a loud voice, "I'm sorry about your husband. He must be such a drunkard." Every policeman and woman turn toward the two.

"He's not my husband," Donovan replies nervously, looking around at everybody.

"He's not? But you slept over at his house last night, didn't you? And he's wearing a wedding ring," Rose continues in a loud voice. She makes a big show of looking at Donovan's ring finger. "Oh, but you're not married! My mistake! He must be really good in bed, then." Rose continues to speak in a voice reserved for shouting matches.

"Shut up! Shut up! I'll do anything if you shut up!" Donovan turns a brilliant shade of red.

"Is that how it started with Anderson?" This earns Rose a couple of sniggers. Donovan turns even redder, if that was possible.

"Seriously, though," Rose's voice lowers to a volume that only John and Sherlock could hear, "leave John and Sherlock alone. Quit doing anything that annoys them. Sherlock isn't a freak or a psychopath, and John isn't his pet. So stop calling them that. They're my friends, you got that?" Rose doesn't wait for an answer. She stomps away from the gaping policewoman and stands by John and Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at Rose with an unidentifiable emotion in his eyes. Rose stares at the crime scene, purposefully ignoring his stare.

"So, have you figured it out yet?" Rose asks Sherlock, not meeting his eye.

"Transparent," Sherlock answers. He continues to look at Rose, and she finally meets his stare. _So that's why she was so quiet earlier. She wanted to surprise Donovan and Anderson and not throw any suspicion on herself. Lestrade thinks she's completely innocent and that Anderson is to blame. Donovan didn't expect that outburst to come from her because she was so quiet. Oh, she's clever. _Sherlock gives Rose the tiniest of smiles and a nod. Rose beams back.

John doesn't say anything. He frowns and looks at the floor. Lestrade walks back into the room.

"So, what have you got for me?" Lestrade asks.

"A man, about six feet four inches, weighs approximately two hundred pounds. Very strong, can wield a knife with precision, favors his left hand. He needs to have access to a fast-acting drug. Oh, and he's dark haired," Sherlock says.

Rose's eyes widen by a fraction. She regains her composure quickly, before anyone else notices. She looks around warily, sensing something sinister.

Sherlock exits and says that he has to check something back at the flat. Rose hails a cab for John and Sherlock.

"I'll walk back. I need some air," Rose tells the two men.

"You okay?" John asks.

"Fine, I'm fine. I just need to think for a little while," Rose says breezily.

"I don't want you to walk alone around here. There's a murderer around here somewhere," John protests.

"And I'm the last thing they want to run into, trust me. I can take care of myself," Rose ends the argument. "Your cab is waiting."

"You can find your way back?" John continues.

"Yes! Honestly, you're worse than a mother," Rose comments. She grins and waves good-bye as the cab pulls away from the curb. She stays cheery until the cab turns the corner, and then her expression turns grim. She pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders and walks in the opposite direction of Baker Street. Rose stops and gasps softly.

On the sidewalk in front of her was a single, blood red rose. There was a small note attached to the flower. Rose bends down and reads the note. She grits her teeth and grinds the rose to pieces beneath her sneakers. Rose looks around the street. Senses heightened, she cautiously walks forward. The words from the note burn in her mind.

'**Roses are red**

**Sherlock and John are blue,**

**Come and play**

**Or I'll kill them, too.**

**-M'**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The words from the note burn in her mind.

**'Roses are red**

**Sherlock and John are blue,**

**Come and play**

**Or I'll kill them, too.**

**-M'**

John

Rose continues walking. Every block or so, there was a dark red rose, pointing the way she should go. Eventually, she sees a man. He is six feet four inches tall and has dark hair. Rose's heart speeds up. He walks toward her.

"Hello, moron," Rose greets him, a blank expression on her face.

"It's Moran. Sebastian Moran. Get it right," the man snaps.

"Mm, pretty sure it's not, moron," Rose's face stays blank. "You killed a man in an abandoned house about three hours ago."

Moran grins evilly. "Hey, from one killer to another, that was pretty good, right?" Rose's face doesn't change. But her eyes turn to stone.

"Anyways, Jim wants to see you. Follow me," Moran spins on his heel and walks briskly. Rose follows him. He leads her to an apartment complex. Moran shows her to an apartment labeled _01. _

"Stay here. Oh, and I'll take your gun, please," Moran motions for the firearm. Rose hands it over. "Jim's not in right now, you're going to have to wait. He'll be back in a few hours."

"And what if I escape? I don't really want to talk to him," Rose challenges.

Moran stiffens. Then he leans in close to Rose, whispering in her ear, "Have you forgotten? I have your gun. I have my knives. I bet you still have the scars. Do you really want to escape?"

"I want answers."

"Then you'll have to wait for Jim." Moran leaves and locks the door.

Rose sighs. Her sense of time is impeccable. She has only been here five minutes and she's bored. She knew that this was Moriarty's attempt to make her she say things she shouldn't when he sees her. So, Rose's only answer was to entertain herself.

After two hours, Rose has explored and mentally catalogued every piece of furniture in the apartment. Then, she deletes the trivial information. After four hours, she has disassembled the dishwasher. In another four, the refrigerator is in pieces. By the time nine hours have rolled around, Rose is covered in soot from climbing up the chimney. After eleven hours, Rose has rearranged all of the furniture, twice. After fourteen hours, the television has been disassembled.

Now thoroughly bored, Rose flops down onto the couch and reviews all the information she currently knows about Moriarty. She reviews every conversational tactic and trick that worked with him she knows. Rose recalls her previous mistakes, conversational or emotional, with Moriarty. She vows to not repeat them.

After spending another hour remembering everything concerning Moriarty, Rose is collected. Moran wordlessly leads her to another apartment. He opens the door and leads her in.

Moriarty is sitting in a leather chair. Moran pulls over a folding chair and nods at Rose. Moran stands by the door. Rose sits in the uncomfortable metal chair and looks at Moriarty.

Moriarty chuckles. "Been a long time, eh?"

"Not nearly long enough."

"Six months? I was expecting longer than that."

"Got bored."

"Oh, yes, I know. And you met Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Of everyone in London, you met them. Interesting, those two." Moriarty pulls out two notebooks. He flips through one of them until he finds a particular page. "Watson was a soldier, but you knew that. Deployed in Afghanistan. Came home from tour two weeks ago, and met Sherlock one week ago. He went to a therapist, did you know? She said that he has trust issues. Wouldn't take very well to someone he had just met, right? But apparently, Mr. Watson liked Sherlock. Moved in with him two days after they met. Now, why would that be?" Moriarty asks Rose.

Rose stays stony-faced.

"Now, Sherlock. He's very interesting. More so than ordinary John Watson. He appears to be a genius. He figured out that cabbie case last week. I was a little disappointed he didn't take the pill. He's almost as smart as me, you know," Moriarty adds.

"Why am I here?" Rose fights to keep her voice blank and calm.

"I missed you."

Rose raises an eyebrow.

"Not going to swallow it?"

"No."

"Fine. You never were any fun. Boring old Rose," Moriarty whines. "I had been planning to destroy you for sometime. And I had been planning to destroy Sherlock ever since I had heard about him. But when I heard that you went to a crime scene together, I was very happy. Because now it will be much more fun to burn you both."

"Why are you telling me this? Are you warning me?"

"I want to see how you will protect your 'friends.' Just trying to make the game more interesting, " Moriarty drawls.

"Well, you're wrong."

"Excuse me?" Moriarty snaps. "I'm never wrong."

"Wrong again." Rose almost smiles.

"How do you, incorrectly, think I'm wrong?" Moriarty sneers.

"Because I don't have friends."

Moriarty looks at her, uncomprehending. Then he laughs. It sends chills down Rose's spine. He continues to laugh until he can't breathe. Wiping tears from his eyes, Moriarty says, "Oh, that's rich, Rose dear. But we both know that's not quite true." He pulls out his phone and presses a button.

Rose hears her own voice. "-leave John and Sherlock alone. Quit doing anything that annoys them. Sherlock isn't a freak or a psychopath, and John isn't his pet. So stop calling them that. They're my friends, you got that?" Moriarty taps another button and the recording stops.

"For someone who doesn't have friends, you seem to have at least two. And you stuck up for them. How spirited of you," Moriarty laughs.

Rose stands and walks towards the door. Moran moves to stop her.

"Out of my way, moron," Rose growls.

"Moran, you can let her go. But um, one more thing, Rose?" Moriarty says. "I'm going to have a lot of fun in this game."

Moran give Rose her gun and she walks out.

oOo

Rose picks the lock of 221b. She quietly opens the door and tiptoes up the stairs. Cautiously, she opens the door to the flat. She groans. John is sitting on the couch. Sherlock is in his chair. Sherlock is reading a book, and John looks furious.

"Where have you been? It's two in the morning, for crying out loud! You didn't come back to the flat! It would have taken you an hour to walk back here, so what were you doing? After five hours, I walked back there and looked around. You were nowhere! Explain yourself," John yells.

Rose sighs and finds her backpack. She checks that all the contents are still there and slides it onto her shoulders. Then she faces John.

"I'm waiting," John remarks cuttingly.

"Thanks for letting me stay here." John is taken aback. Sherlock looks up from his book. "Really. It was a nice offer and all, but this was a mistake. I need to leave," Rose says.

_Yesterday, she stuck up for us and said we were her friends. Why is she leaving? _"I'm sorry I shouted. There was really no need of that. But I was concerned. Especially since I don't know your mobile number or anything. But a murderer was on the loose. And no one had seen hide or hair of yours since yesterday morning. What were you doing?" John asks, gently this time.

"I was out. But my coming home late isn't the only reason you're upset, is it?" Rose decides. John nods his head. _How does she know things like this? Genius, forgot._

"What did I do that would make you upset?" Rose mumbles, staring at John. It hits her. "You can't be upset about **that**, can you? They deserved it, anyways. Why would you be upset about that?"

John just frowns. "There was no need to do that-"

"Yes, there was," Rose cuts him off. "They were annoying you. I didn't like that."

"You could have told them that otherwise!"

"I could have, but it would have been much less efficient. This way, Anderson is suspended for at least two weeks-"

"A month, actually," Sherlock interjects. Rose looks at him. "He's suspended for a month. He can't come to work, and he's not paid for this month."

"That's even better, then. Anderson isn't coming to work for a month, and Donovan is too intimidated and nervous to insult you again. I don't see why this is making you upset," Rose states.

John looks furious and opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't say anything and just looks at Sherlock. John pulls at his hair and looks exasperated. He paces around the room and mutters things to himself.

Rose is bewildered. "Can you translate this behavior?" she asks Sherlock.

Sherlock looks amused. "John is upset because he feels you manipulated them. He feels that was not the morally right thing to do. Much as he dislikes Anderson, John doesn't want him to lose his job, which John feels Anderson could have lost yesterday. He also doesn't want to embarrass people, so what you did to Sally Donovan yesterday was wrong, in his eyes. You also acted shy and quiet, which you used to your advantage. John feels that you were being deceptive. John is usually willing to bend his moral code if people are in danger, but as there was no life-threatening situation, everything you did yesterday was wrong. He was also very concerned for your safety today, and that's why he waited up for you to get home. All of his emotions boiled over, and that's why he shouted."

"Oh. I guess that explains it, then," Rose whispers. She looks at the army doctor, who is calmed by Sherlock's accurate explanations of his emotions. "I didn't know you cared so much. I'm sorry. But Donovan and Anderson deserved it. They were insulting you two! I didn't want them to do that."

John sighs. "I know. They are really annoying. But that doesn't give you an excuse to sink to their level, you understand?"

Rose nods, ashamed.

"Why are you leaving?" Sherlock asks. "This morning you were keen enough to stay with us."

"And why do you care so much?" Rose snaps. "What makes me so interesting? What do you want with me?" Sherlock stares at her and doesn't answer. John opens his mouth to answer, but stops.

"That's what I thought. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Author's Note: Hey guys, tell me what you think! I love to hear what you have to say. I'm thinking of doing a few storylines from the actual episodes, with Rose. Review or PM me your opinions.**

Rose

"Wrong. You want to stay, but for some reason, you can't. There's tension in your shoulders and hips. You've had a bad experience today. Something angered and frustrated you. Something bad. Bad enough to change your mind about staying. Who wants to bet it had something to do with Moriarty?" Sherlock says.

* * *

Rose runs over to Sherlock and punches him. He falls backwards, hitting his head on the fireplace. Sherlock loses consciousness. Rose turns to John, eyes dead.

"Rose! What? You just hit…Why? I know he's insensitive, but…Why?" John asks. _He doesn't know. Oh, God. Let's keep it that way._

Rose walks toward John. She raises her fist. John makes no move to defend himself_. He just looks confused. He trusts me. He trusts me not to hit him_. Rose lowers her arm. _He is so good. I wish I was like him._ Rose pulls out her gun. Now, John looks concerned.

"Rose, Rose, stop. Whatever you're doing, stop. We can fix this," John tries to calm her. Rose turns the gun in her hand and holds it by the barrel. She brings it down on John's head with a crack.

John slumps forward. Rose catches him and pushes him onto the sofa. She arranges John's limbs so he is comfortable. Then, she kisses his forehead.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry," Rose apologizes, tears in her eyes. Rose faces Sherlock's unconscious form. She heaves him into his chair. Then she kisses Sherlock's temple.

"I'm sorry to you too, Sherlock," Rose whispers softly. She blinks away her tears and leaves the flat. She walks down Baker Street, wistful. _Why can't I just be normal? Ordinary?_ As she's thinking this, a black car pulls up to the sidewalk. Two men get out. Rose keeps walking on the busy street. They follow her.

Rose stands outside a department store, pretending to admire the outfits. In reality, she's examining the two men that are following her. _Thug types. Not exactly the smartest. I didn't think my death would be so soon. There's Moriarty for you._ She heads down a dark alley. _If I'm going to die tonight, I'm going down fighting. _She hides behind a rubbish bin. The men follow her and look for her.

Rose surprises one of them and kicks him in the groin. She delivers hard punches to his jaw and head, successfully beating him unconscious. She drives her elbow into the other man's stomach. He had attempted to sneak up behind her. _Good luck with that._ Rose deals a swift uppercut to the second man's jaw, sending him sprawling backwards. _He's not going anywhere soon. _

The second Rose stepped away from the second thug, another man stepped out of the shadows.

"My dear, I think you'd better come with me," the man drawls.

"Um, no." Rose starts walking toward the street. _Street. People. Witnesses_.

"I'm not going to harm you, and neither were these men," the man articulated. He leans on his umbrella.

"Liar."

"Look at me. Do I look like I'm lying? It takes a good liar to know one." Rose freezes at those words. She slowly inspects the man with the umbrella.

"No, you're not."

"Good. Now, come with me, please."

"Why?"

"We need to discuss my younger brother."

"Oh. Sherlock. Of course **you're** his brother."

Mycroft Holmes nods. "Follow me, please." He struts toward the black car Rose spotted earlier.

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance for them?" Rose points to the thugs.

"They'll be fine."

"Your concern is jaw dropping," Rose notes, dripping sarcasm.

"I know. I hate myself sometimes."

They ride in silence. Their destination is the Diogenes Club, a large white building. Rose gets out and follows Mycroft into his office.

"Take a seat, please, Miss Smith," Mycroft invites her.

"Rose, please," Rose corrects him.

"Very well, Rose," Mycroft laces his fingers together. "Rose, do you know why you are here?"

"I think you're going to tell me, whether I like it or not."

"You broke into the flat of 221b."

"Wrong. The window was open."

Ignoring her, Mycroft says, "You then proceed to sleep in the flat, with Sherlock watching you. In the morning, after breakfast, you and Sherlock deduce each other. He won and you tell him your life story. Afterwards, you go to a crime scene with Sherlock." Mycroft pauses. "You come back to the flat much later than Sherlock does. You proceed to physically abuse both men. Why?"

Rose looks sullen and doesn't answer. Mycroft waits.

"Rose, I know your story, too. I have audio recorders all over their flat. And I heard every word you said. I found the police files on your family's death." Mycroft slides a folder toward her.

Rose picks up the file and throws it in the air. _He thinks that he can bribe me? Why he want to know? Idiot. And that is the last thing I want to see._ Papers scatter all over the floor and desk. Mycroft merely looks at Rose and repeats his question.

"Why did you knock both John and Sherlock out? What does Moriarty have to do with this?"

"I think, Mr. Holmes, that you can figure that out for yourself. You're a high-ranking member of the British government. Your brother isn't the only one with superior intelligence. Why don't **you** tell **me**?"

Mycroft only says, "Moriarty used John and Sherlock against you. He threatened them, and you decided to sever ties."

"Correct, Mr. Holmes."

"Then you were trying to protect them. But I can protect them, too. You needn't worry about anything. I can make sure that you, Sherlock, and Doctor Watson are safe from Moriarty," Mycroft offers.

"Why? What's in it for you?" Rose is wary.

"Would you like to live with them?"

"I would, but I prioritize their safety over myself," Rose emphasizes. "You don't know what Moriarty can do. And what's in in for you?"

"I do, in fact. I've heard of what he can do. And Sherlock is my brother."

"So? You two don't seem like the type who would get along. What do you want from me?" Rose queries.

Mycroft grinds the heel of his hands into his eyes, thinking that Rose is more difficult than his brother. "I can provide...incentive, if you would give me information about his whereabouts."

"You want me to spy on him?"

"If that's how you think of it, yes."

"No."

Mycroft is surprised. "No? You want to run away from Moriarty, correct? Doing that takes money. Money that you don't have."

"So? I can hide just fine from him."

"But-"

"No, Mr. Holmes. You won't get me to change my mind on this. And anyways, I'm not going back to them."

"And why ever not?"

"Sherlock and John are still in danger because of me," Rose protests. "And I won't let myself ruin their lives."

"Moriarty will be after Sherlock anyways. Sherlock is his only competition, after all," Mycroft says gently. "John knows the risks. And he loves it. When Doctor Watson is with Sherlock, he doesn't see London. He sees the battlefield."

"But I don't want to be Moriarty's pawn!" Rose screams at him. She calms down. "I will not be a pawn in his game. And besides, I'll just end up hurt again. Moriarty will find some way to use John and Sherlock against me. I don't want harm to come to them, or to me."

"You consider them friends?"

Rose hesitates. _This could be a trick question._ "I consider them good people who have had the bad luck of meeting me."

"But you do like them? You care for their well-being? You were happy with them?" Mycroft asks.

"Yes, but I fail to see why this is relevant."

Mycroft massages his temple. "A wise man once asked why we should be happy now when we will only be sad later." Rose glowers at him. "Do you know what the answer is?" Rose shakes her head.

"Because we will be sad later."

Rose rolls her eyes. "And why should you care about my happiness? How do I know you won't deliberately send Moriarty my way?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "You don't trust me?"

"I don't trust you as far as I can spit."

"But you trust Sherlock and John. Why is that?"

Rose shrugs.

"Well, it is your choice. But I think they need someone like you."

"Oh, yes. 'Cause who doesn't need a troubled teenager who knows fifty different ways to kill you?" Rose asks sarcastically.

Mycroft tilts his head to the side. "You seem to be under the impression that you are only capable of doing evil."

Rose shrugs. "Based upon past experiences, I think that's a pretty fair conclusion." She stands and turns to leave. Rose is almost to the door when Mycroft asks,

"Did you ever think that maybe you could prevent Moriarty from hurting you? Hurting Sherlock and John? Because maybe that's why you met them. To stop it from happening."

Rose places her hand upon the doorknob. "You don't seem like a man who believe in coincidences."

Mycroft smiles. "People who don't believe in coincidences must lead very dull lives indeed."

Rose hesitates, and Mycroft can see it. _Maybe I can. Maybe I can save them. Change things up a bit._

"Okay." Rose opens the door and gestures for Mycroft to follow her. "Get me a ride back."

oOo

Mycroft personally drives Rose back to 221b. She gets out of the car and pauses. She's unsure of how to continue.

_Might as well get it over with. _She rings the doorbell. No answer. She walks around the side of the building and climbs up the fire escape. She climbs through the open window and lands back in John's room. She walks out into the living room and finds John asleep on the couch and Sherlock in his chair, multiple nicotine patches on his arm.

"You're back." Sherlock is surprised.

"Yeah." Rose looks at John with a smile on her face. "I think I'll just sleep on the floor."

"Rose?"

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I'm. um, well…" Rose drifts off to sleep, but she swears she heard Sherlock say 'I'm glad you're okay.'


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Author's note: This one is shorter, but it primes for the case of the Blind Banker. **

Sherlock

"I'm, um, well…" Rose drifts off to sleep, but she swears she heard Sherlock say 'I'm glad you're okay."

John wakes up at 9 am. He had slept restlessly. _Probably worried about Rose._ Sherlock smirks to himself. He glances over at Rose. _Why did she decide to come back? Obviously, Moriarty had threatened John and I in some way. She felt the need to violently sever ties, to make us feel that she did not care about us. _

"Morning."

"Morning, John."

"Have you heard anything about Rose?"

"Why are you so concerned about her? She can take care of herself just fine," Sherlock remarks.

"I know she can take care of herself. I don't even know why I worry about her." John pauses. "I guess it has to do with her back story. I mean, she's been through so much. She witnessed her family's murder, she killed a woman at age nine, and she watched her best friends die in front of her… It's more her mental health I'm worried about."

"Because she's been through so much trauma?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, but also because killing people… it does something to you. It shatters you. It breaks you into a million pieces."

"Oh please, John. Your mental health is fine. You've killed people, and you're just fine."

"I've killed, but not in cold blood."

John hears a sigh. He looks over toward the sound and sees Rose, sprawled out on the floor.

"Rose! Oh God!" John leaps out of bed and rushes toward the girl. "You're back!" John kneels beside her.

"Yes, I'm back." Rose sits up. "How's your head, soldier?"

John grimaces in memory. "It's okay. Why'd you do that, anyways?"

Rose looks down. "Sherlock, can you explain?"

"Moriarty threatened us, so in order to protect us, Rose decided to sever ties. She figured that if she hurt us, we'd be unlikely to go looking for her," Sherlock explains.

"Plus, I'm kind of a big target with Moriarty. You guys won't be safe if you're around me," Rose speaks to her shoes.

"Rose, I think it's really nice of you that you want to keep us safe, but we're two grown men. We can take care of ourselves."

"Yes, and my parents were grown ups, too. And look at them!" Rose hisses. "You two are good men, and I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

"Well, um, thanks. Is Moriarty the reason why you came home so late, yesterday?" John inquires.

"Yeah. He locked me in an apartment and left me to wait for fifteen hours. Horribly boring," Rose tries to joke.

"Then what?"

"He talked to me, and I came back."

"And then you punched us. Why did you come home then?"

Rose takes interest in her shoes again. "I talked to Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock?" John spins to face him.

"No, Mycroft," says Sherlock.

"I kind of beat up his goons. Mr. Holmes set two of his thugs on me, and I thought they were Moriarty's," Rose grins. "They are going to be sore when they wake up."

John laughs softly. Then he turns serious. "Yesterday, you told us that Moriarty tried to break you. What did you mean?"

"Before Moriarty threatened Ava and Jason, I told him no. He wasn't used to that. He hated being told 'No'. So he tried to extinguish the spark of rebellion I had in me."

"How?"

"Lots of ways. He used physical challenges, mental challenges, and torture devices to get me to stop saying 'No'." Rose smiles forlornly. "He only succeeded once. It hurt. I felt despair, helpless, and numb. It took a while to recover, but I eventually did it. Ava and Jason had no small part in that. You're right, John, by the way.

"Killing people does do something to you. It breaks your soul into a million pieces, and you never really recover from it."

There was silence for a while. Then, John asks, "Are you going to stay with us?"

"Yes."

"How long?" Sherlock asks, this time.

"Forever." Rose smiles. "Unless you don't want me to stay, which I totally understand."

"No, you can stay." John affirms.

"Yes, you can stay." Sherlock confirms.

"Oh, Rose, I almost forgot," John says, looking around.

"What?"

John stands up and walks toward the table. He picks up his wallet. "Ten quid."

"For what?" Rose is bewildered.

"You bet me that Sherlock couldn't keep anything clean. You were right." John hands her the tenner.

Rose looks at Sherlock. _I can't keep anything clean? I must make an effort in the future_.

"You look a bit miffed, Sherlock," Rose comments as she takes the bill.

Sherlock opens his mouth to make a smart reply when Rose starts giggling. She just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Sherlock is going to comment on Rose's giggling fit, but he hears an email come in on his computer.

"John? Laptop?"

"You're serious? It's three feet away from you!" John asks, incredulous.

Sherlock merely looks at him. John sighs and fetches Sherlock's laptop.

"Mm, you'd like this one, John. It's about a diamond."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

John

**Author's Note: I decided to have this chapter focus on John and Rose, again, instead of immediately going into the Blind Banker. That's at the end of the chapter. **

"Mm, you'd like this one, John. It's about a diamond."

Sherlock reads the email a little longer, and then closes the laptop. "They're coming to the flat, soon."

"Okay." John strolls toward the fridge and opens it. "Um, Sherlock, we need to go shopping."

"Oh, dull."

"Well, Sherlock, we need food. I know you don't eat much, but now Rose is here and she eats," John argues.

Sherlock doesn't move or indicate he has heard John.

"You…Okay, then. I'll do the shopping. Wanna come?" John asks Rose.

"Sure."

Rose and John walk downstairs and make their way towards Tesco's.

"So, what's your story?" Rose asks.

John looks at her. "You know my story. You deduced it two days ago."

Rose shakes her head. "No, that was my analysis. I know what you did, but I don't know why. Why did you want to become a doctor? Why did you go into the army? Who were your best friends when you were a kid? Did you ever get into huge trouble for something? What's your first childhood memory? I want you to tell me about you."

"Well, I became a doctor because when I was small, my mum got into a car accident. She wasn't expected to live, her injuries were so bad. She went into surgery, and we just started hoping and praying. My dad, Harry, and I. After forever, a nurse came out and told us that she would be okay. We went into the room and saw her. She was sleeping and was very pale. I saw the doctor who operated on her, and he was a mess. Blood was all over his jumper and he was exhausted. But he had saved my mum, and I thought he was a hero. I wanted to save lives like him." John chuckles. "I ran over and hugged him, bloody jumper and all. I told him thank you over and over again."

They pass a small park. Rose sees a little child sitting on a park bench. He is sobbing quietly. Nobody is paying any attention to him.

"Hold on a tick," Rose stops John. She walks over to the boy and kneels in front of him. "Hey, what's up, kiddo?"

The boy stops his crying and looks at Rose. _Pretty young. Only seven or eight, at the oldest,_ John thinks.

"M-Mummy and Daddy d-don't care about me," the little boy whispers, hiccoughing.

"What's your name?" Rose asks.

"Peter," the boy says.

"Peter, why don't you think you mum and dad care about you?"

"Because all they ever do is fight. They fight and don't even notice me," Peter sobs.

"Did you try to talk to them about it?"

"No."

"Then they probably don't know how much it bothers you. If you asked them to, I bet they would stop," Rose says gently.

"No, they wouldn't."

"You haven't tried, have you?" Peter shakes his head. "Well, how do you know it won't work, then? I'll come with you if you want me to," Rose reassures.

"Really?" Peter looks hopeful.

"Of course. See that man right there? That's my friend, John. Can he come?" Peter nods.

"Well, let's go then." Rose says brightly.

Peter stands up and shyly takes Rose's hand. She glances at John. "Wanna come with?" John nods and follows them.

Peter leads Rose and John to a small house in a row of small houses. Peter stops and points to one of the houses. "That's mine, right there," Peter says.

"Do you want to talk to your parents with John and I there, or should I talk to them, or what do you want to do?" Rose asks.

Peter looks up at Rose from his mop of blond hair. "Can you talk to them first?"

"I will if you want me to. But you need to stay with John."

"Yes, please." Peter nods his head. They stood within earshot of Rose, but not close enough that they would immediately be seen.

Rose strides up to the house and rings the doorbell. She steps back and waits. The door opens suddenly and a woman appears. She had blond hair, green eyes, and a permanent frown on her face.

"Yes?" the woman snaps.

Rose raises an eyebrow and looks at the woman icily. She stays silent. The woman tries again.

"Yes, how can I help you?" the woman says in a more cordial tone.

"My name is Rose Smith, and I'm with Scotland Yard," Rose flashes the woman a badge she had nicked from Sally Donovan. "Do you know where your son is at the moment?"

The woman thinks for a moment, then answers, "Yes, he's in the living room. Peter?" She calls back into the house.

"That won't be necessary, ma'am. I know where he is."

"I just told you, he's in the living room. Peter?" the woman calls louder.

"He's not in the living room, ma'am."

"Where else would he be?"

Rose steps aside. The woman sees Peter with John. She gives a strangled gasp of surprise. "Peter? But…what?"

Rose steps into the woman's line of sight again. "I found him in the park, unsupervised, alone, not ten minutes ago."

"But I just saw him in the living room."

"How long ago did you see him in the living room?"

"About…about an hour ago," the woman widens her eyes in shock.

"And what did you do right after you saw him?" Rose asks.

"I was…talking with my husband."

"Ma'am, I chatted to your son for a few minutes. He might have mentioned that you and your husband talk a lot. Usually in very loud, angry tones." The woman looks at her shoes.

"Yes, we argue a lot."

"Did you know that Peter doesn't like it when you argue with your husband?" Rose asks sternly.

"No. I guess I never really thought about it."

"He feels alone and scared when his parents argue. Peter feels that you and your husband don't care about him at all." The woman looks mortified.

"He does? Oh, Jesus," the woman looks at Peter. "No, we love him-"

"Prove it. Listen to him. Don't argue in front of him. Show him how much you love him," Rose says in a voice that could cut steel. The woman looks small and timid.

"Yes. We'll do that. I promise."

"I'm going to give him my mobile number. If I get a call from him concerning this issue again, I will arrange it so that Social Services is here within the hour. Is that understood?" Rose stares daggers at the woman.

"Yes, ma'am," the woman whispers meekly.

Rose turns on her heel and walks back to John and Peter. She crouches down next to Peter. "I'm giving you John's mobile number. If you ever feel like you're unloved, Peter, call this number, okay?"

Peter smiles. "Okay, Rose." John writes down his number on a scrap of paper and hands it to Peter. Peter gives Rose a huge hug.

"Thanks, Rose. Thanks, John." Peter waves back at them. He skips back to his mother, who welcomes him with open arms. Rose grins and waves good-bye.

"Time to get that shopping, eh, John?"

"Yes." John and Rose walk away from the little house. "What the heck was that?"

"I was helping a little boy. What did it look like?"

John looks at Rose. "I just can't believe a girl who killed someone at age nine would help a little boy."

Rose sighs. "It's not like I wanted to kill her. My best friends were threatened. What was I supposed to do? And I'm not incapable of caring, John. Strange as it might seem."

_She sounds so old and tired. Well, what else would you sound like, after you've been through so much?_

"I was wrong, you know," John says thoughtfully.

"About what?"

"After you dealt with Anderson and Donovan, I thought you were pretty ruthless. You dealt with them pretty harshly. I mean, you got Anderson suspended, and you humiliated Donovan. I know why you did that, but still. Anyways, I thought that you would have trouble sympathizing with people and their emotions. Especially since you're so like Sherlock."

"I'm like Sherlock? How? Aside from the brilliant intelligence, of course?" Rose says with a grin audible in her voice.

"You both suppress your emotions very well. When you were deducing Sherlock, you were furious about something, but nothing about your body said you were furious. The only reason I knew you were angry was because of your voice."

Rose considers this. "Right, but just because I suppress my emotions doesn't mean I don't have them, John. I'm just careful with my heart. Remember that. And plus," Rose adds, "emotions usually get in the way of logic and brainwork."

By this time, they had reached Tesco's. They split up the list to make up for time. When they reach the chip-and-pin machine, John starts having issues. He shouts at the machine when it won't scan his items and when it won't accept his card. _Bloody machine. Stupid, stupid machine! _

"Stay here, watch the shopping. I'm going back to the flat to get a different card," John says.

Rose giggles. "Bummer. I wanted to tell Sherlock you had a row with a machine. Notice his expression for me, will you?"

oOo

John comes back a few minutes later, and this time there was no trouble with the chip-and-pin machine. Right after they check out, John says,

"We need to get you a mobile. I don't want to not know where you are."

They make a quick stop at a mobile phone retailer, and Rose chooses a small, sleek phone. She can text and take pictures on it.

"Thank you, John. You really don't need to give me a phone," Rose says.

"It's fine. No problem."

John hails a cab and they head back to the flat. In the cab, John asks, "What exactly did you whisper in Anderson's ear?"

Rose smirks. "I merely pointed out the obvious. I said, 'Jealous of Sherlock much?' "

"How did you know Anderson was jealous of Sherlock?"

"You're kidding, right?" Rose looks at John. "Well, I noticed how Anderson looked at Sherlock when Sherlock wasn't paying attention. It was with loathing and hate. There's only, really, a few reasons you would hate someone? One, you want to be them. Two, you hate yourself. Three, you feel threatened. To Anderson, Sherlock fulfills all three."

"How?"

"Sherlock is brilliant and handsome. But I never said that," Rose gives John a pointed glare. John smiles. "Poor Anderson must absolutely hate himself when he compares himself to Sherlock. And it doesn't help that Sherlock insults Anderson all the time, calling him an idiot. Although he really is one. I really feel sorry for Anderson."

"How did you know he would react so violently?"

"I didn't. I knew he would be angry, but I didn't know he would react like that. Lestrade punching Anderson was a bonus, though."

The cab pulls up to 221b, and John pays the cab fare.

"Don't mind us, Sherlock. We've got it," John remarks sarcastically as they carry the shopping up the stairs. Rose begins putting the shopping away. John looks at Sherlock. "Is that my computer?"

"Of course."

"What?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John pauses. "It's password protected!"

"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox," says Sherlock.

"Right, thank you." John closes the computer and puts it back. He sits down and starts going through the pile of bills. Rose finishes putting away the groceries and stands in the doorway of the kitchen.

"What about the diamond case, Sherlock?" she asks.

"Not especially interested. I left them a message."

"I see, by the giant scratch on the table an the sword underneath your chair."

John gives a start. "What? Sherlock?" He spots the sword. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock is surprised.

"For saying you'd barely moved and basically calling you lazy."

Sherlock waves his hand. John looks back at the pile of bills.

"Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock dismisses the thought.

"I'd help, but it would be kind of awkward, seeing as I technically don't exist," Rose quips.

John smiles at her. Then he turns to Sherlock. "Listen, um, if you'd be able to lend me some, um…" he trails off. "Sherlock, you listening?"

"I need to go to the bank."

He stands dramatically and leaves. "You coming, John, Rose?"

Rose grins and runs downstairs. John groans and grabs his jacket.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Author's Note: I'm planning on doing episodes 2-5 from Sherlock. I'll make them between 2-4 chapters each. They will have the same storylines, same villains, same plot, but I might give Rose some of the other characters' lines. She won't become a passive character. That being said, I own nothing except for Rose and her back story. Thanks for reading! Please review.**

Rose

Rose grins and runs downstairs. John groans and grabs his jacket.

They arrive at the bank. _Lots of traders and international businessmen must come here. All the different times and clocks._

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank," John starts.

"John, if you need money, you can have your ten quid back," says Rose. "Seriously, I don't want it if you need it."

John takes the ten quid back. They follow Sherlock up an escalator. The trio comes to a desk.

"Sherlock Holmes," says Sherlock to the woman at the desk.

They are referred to a floor upstairs and wait.

"Sherlock Holmes," a man greets Sherlock.

"Sebastian," Sherlock says in reply. He shakes Sherlock's hand.

"How are you buddy? How long has it been, eight years since I clapped ties on you?" Sebastian says.

Sherlock introduces John. "This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?" Sebastian is incredulous.

"Colleague," John corrects. John shakes Sebastian's hand.

"Right. And who might you be?" Sebastian asks Rose.

"Rose. Nice to meet you, sir," Rose says. _Act invisible, act invisible._

"Pleasure's all mine," Sebastian shakes her hand. He sits down at his desk. "You need anything? Coffee? Water?"

"No." John says. He and Sherlock sit down in the two chairs. Rose stands.

"So, you're doing well. Been abroad a lot," Sherlock notes.

"Well, some," Sebastian says modestly.

"Flying all the way around the world, twice in a month?" Sherlock asks. John looks confused.

Sebastian chuckles. "Right. You're doing that thing." Sebastian points at Sherlock and looks at John. "We were at Uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock says. Rose stares at Sebastian.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," Sebastian continues.

"Yes, I've seen him do it," John says.

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated him," Sebastian says. Sherlock looks a little sad. _But Sherlock doesn't look sad. What did they do to him at Uni? Oh, Sherlock. _Rose decides she doesn't like Sebastian. _What can I get him with?_

Sebastian keeps talking, not noticing that Sherlock is hurt. "We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know if you'd been shagging the previous night." _He's not a freak._ Rose glares at Sebastian.

"I simply observed."

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips this month, flying all the way across the world? Quite right. How could you tell?"

"I chatted with your secretary," Sherlock says. Sebastian laughs.

"But I didn't." Sebastian stops laughing and looks at Rose. "I can tell that you aren't married, you have no current girlfriend at the moment, and you're right handed. That suit is old, but you like the color. Fond of blue, are we? Sentimental value, the suit was probably your father's, it doesn't fit you that well. You had braces when you were younger because you had a Class I Malocclusion. The scar close to your left eye indicates a biking accident when you were younger. And you had a haircut in the last week. Am I right?" Rose asks Sebastian.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow and looks at Sherlock. "Is she yours?"

"I'd prefer it if you asked me. I am still here, you know," Rose says acidly.

John smiles. Sebastian's eyes widen. "Is Sherlock your father?" he addresses Rose this time.

"No."

Sebastian smirks. "Well, anyways, I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in. Sir William's office, bank's former chairman. Room's been left here, as sort of a memorial. Someone broke in, late last night," Sebastian says as he walks them over to the office.

"What did they steal?" John asks.

"Nothing. Just left a little message." The four of them enter the office. The first thing Rose notices are the graffiti marks. There were two marks, a horizontal line with a squiggle underneath, and another horizontal line. Rose, Sebastian, John, and Sherlock stare at the marks.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian tells them. He pulls up the CCTV on a computer. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, that's where it gets really interesting. Every door that opens in this bank gets logged right here." Sebastian tells them, pointing to the computer in front of them. "Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Rose says, smiling. Sebastian looks at her.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it, and we'll pay you. Five figures. This is in advance," Sebastian pulls a check out of his pocket. "Tell me how he got in, and there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," Sherlock snaps. Rose and John stare at him with disbelief. Sherlock walks back to the office.

"Can you get that?" Rose whispers, nodding her head towards the check.

"Sure." Rose follows Sherlock.

"He's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?" John asks Sebastian. John is given the check, and his breath hitches slightly at the number.

Rose finds Sherlock taking pictures of the graffiti. She walks around the room, careful not to get in the way of Sherlock's pictures. _He said no doors were opened. What's another way you can get into a room? A window!_ Rose turns towards the window in the room. Sherlock watches her.

Rose pulls up the blinds and opens the window. She looks down. _You can get in through here, but you'd have to scale the building. Unless… _Rose looks left and right. _A balcony. That's how he got in!_ Rose turns to Sherlock.

"The window." Sherlock nods. _So, that's how he got in. Now the paint._ Rose takes her own pictures of the graffiti. She gently touches the paint and inhales. _Why does this look so familiar? I've seen these before. But why would they put there? Nobody comes into this office, really, so they wouldn't see it. But someone else could. _

Rose sees that Sherlock has the same thought. They both look towards Sir William's office from different cubicles, looking for the person that could see the graffiti from where they were sitting. Sherlock found the person.

"Eddie Van Coon," he tells Rose. They meet John downstairs.

"You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him," John says. Rose sees Sherlock smile out of the corner of her eye. "How did you know?"

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?" John repeats.

"Time is right, but the date is wrong. Said two days ago. He crossed the date line twice, but didn't change it," Rose explains.

"Been here a month? How'd you get that part?" John asks.

"New Breitling. Only came out this February." Sherlock tells him.

"Okay, so do you think we should we sniff around here a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." Sherlock says.

"What?" John is astounded.

"The graffiti was a message," Rose tells John. "Someone at the bank, working on a trading clause. We find the intended recipient and…" she lets John finish.

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finishes. "Well, there's three hundred people up there, who was it meant for?"

"Pillars."

"What?" John repeats.

"Pillars and screens. Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And, of course the message was left at eleven-thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot," Sherlock says.

"Does it?" John asks.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was meant for someone who came to work at midnight. Not many Van Coons in the phonebook. Taxi!" Sherlock shouts the last bit.

They end up at an apartment building. Sherlock rings the bell for Van Coon's apartment, but receives no answer.

"So, what do we do now?" John asks. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

"We could. Or, if you have no patience, like me, there is a quicker solution," Rose grins. "The people in the flat above Van Coon's just moved in. They can buzz us in, cause they've probably never met Van Coon before, and therefore have no idea what to expect."

John raises his eyebrows as Sherlock pretends to be Van Coon. The woman lets them in, and Sherlock borrows her balcony. He drops down to Van Coon's flat below.

Rose and John are stuck outside Van Coon's door.

"Sherlock? You think you can let us in now?" John yells.

"Shh." Rose crouches down and faces the lock on the door. She grabs a pouch out of her jacket pocket and inserts some tools into the lock.

"What are you doing?" John whispers.

"Picking the lock," she whispers back.

"What? Rose! You can't pick the lock," John sputters.

The door swings open. "Can and did." Rose smirks. "Sherlock?"

They find him staring a dead man. Shot through the head. _Van Coon._

oOo

About twenty minutes later, police are at the apartment. Sherlock and Rose put on latex gloves while John stares at Van Coon.

"John? How long has he been dead, you think?" Rose asks.

"Mm, seven, eight hours, maybe?"

"Same here."

"You think the lost a lot of money? Suicide is pretty common among city boys," John says.

"No, not really. This isn't suicide," Rose says.

"The door was locked from the inside. You had to pick the lock just to get in, and Sherlock used the balcony," John scoffs.

Sherlock inspects the luggage. "Been away, three days, judging by the laundry."

John ignores him. Sherlock tries again. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed inside the case."

"I know, Sherlock, I saw that right after I got in," Rose says, mistakenly thinking he is talking to her. Rose looks at Van Coon. _His mouth. Something is in his mouth_. She gently pries Van Coon's cold lips apart and pulls out a piece of folded, black paper. She holds it up to the light so she can see it better.

"I'll take your word for it, thanks," John says to Sherlock.

"Problem?"

"I'm not really desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if that was the most fun thing in the world.

"Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti, why were they put there?" Sherlock asks, joining Rose.

"Some sort of code?"

"Yes, but why graffiti, John? Why not email, or a phone call?" Rose asks, still inspecting the paper.

"He wasn't answering?"

"Exactly. Glad we're on the same page." Rose hands the paper to Sherlock.

"No, we're not," John protests.

Rose sighs. "John, what message would you always want to avoid?" John crinkles his brow in confusion.

"Debts? Bills?" he offers.

"Good, you're on the right track. But that's not it. What message would you always avoid? What would make Van Coon so terrified that he would immediately leave work, lock all of his doors, and grab a gun?"

"He was being threatened?" John asks.

"Yes." Sherlock answers. John, Rose, and Sherlock turn towards the sound of a new voice.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met," Sherlock extends a hand.

"Yeah, I know who you are. And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," the man says. Sherlock stops cold. He withdraws his hand and gives the man the folded paper.

"I phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Sherlock asks icily.

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant, it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock," says the man.

Sherlock turns to Rose and John, as if to say, 'Can you believe this man?' Rose groans. _This is going to be good_, she thinks sarcastically.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock says to another officer.

"That does seem to be the only explanation of all the facts," John remarks.

"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it," Sherlock says.

"Like?" Dimmock is clearly skeptical.

"The wound is on the right side of his head."

"So?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock demonstrates, trying to reach the right side of his head with his left arm. "Requires quite a bit of contortion, doesn't it?"

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm surprised you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat. Coffee table on the left hand side. Coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets, habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?" Sherlock asks dryly.

"No, I think you've covered it."

"Don't be fresh about it, Sherlock."

Rose and John speak at the same time.

"Oh, I might as well, I'm always at the bottom of the list." Rose shakes her head and John looks at the ceiling in exasperation. "There's a knife with butter on the right side of the blade, because he used it with his left-hand. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of the head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

"But the gun-" Dimmock argues. _This guy doesn't know when to stop, does he?_

"He was waiting for the killer. He was being threatened."

"What?" Dimmock is confused.

"Today, at the bank, sort of a warning," John fills him in.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock explains.

"And the bullet?"

"Rose? I'm tired of the idiots," Sherlock says.

Rose sighs. "The bullet went through the open window."

"Oh, come on." Dimmock rolls his eyes. "What are the chances of that?"

"Wait for the ballistics report. I promise you, the bullet in his brain didn't come from Van Coon's gun," Rose says, noticing Sherlock's irritated face.

"But if everything was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock asks.

"Good. You're finally asking the right questions." Sherlock turns with a flourish and leaves. John nods at Dimmock and follows suit. Rose turns to him.

"I'm dreadfully sorry about him. He's, well, a bit impatient if you can't keep up," Rose apologizes. She follows Sherlock and John out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Author's note: When in the story, bold typeface means a text.**

"I'm dreadfully sorry about him. He's, well, a bit impatient if you can't keep up," Rose apologizes. She follows Sherlock and John out.

Sherlock

"And then he's sort of left trying to cut his hair with a fork, which of course, can't be done," Sebastian laughs at his joke. His friends around him laugh as well.

"It was a threat, that's what the graffiti meant," Sherlock interrupts.

"I'm kind of in a meeting, can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Sebastian asks.

"I don't think this can wait, sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who works in your office, was killed," Sherlock says.

"What?" Sebastian is appalled.

"Van Coon. Police are at his flat," John says.

"Killed?" Sebastian repeats.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Sherlock asks sarcastically.

They leave Rose outside the men's room as they discuss the murder. Suddenly, Sebastian storms out, angry at something.

"Sebastian, wait! What's wrong?" Rose asks.

"It's suicide, nothing more, Rose. Sherlock is wrong. He's seeing things that aren't there," Sebastian spits.

Rose says, "No, he's not. I came to the same conclusion that he did. I went to Van Coon's flat, and I saw that he was murdered. It wasn't suicide, Sebastian."

"God, not you, too. Listen," Sebastian leans in close to Rose, "freak spawn. Eddie didn't have enemies. Nobody would want to kill him. He was a great businessman. Brilliant, in fact. He once lost five million pounds and made it back within a week. No debts. And the police are experts. Why shouldn't I believe them?"

"The same reason you asked Sherlock, not the police, to see the graffiti," Rose whispers fiercely.

Sebastian pulls back and looks at her queerly. Then, he walks away.

oOo

"I said, can you pass me a pen?" Sherlock says as John walks in.

"What? When?" John asks.

"About an hour ago."

"Didn't notice I'd gone out then." John throws Sherlock a pen. Sherlock catches without ever taking his eyes off the pictures. "Where's Rose? She could've passed you a pen."

"Don't know."

"What?" John texts Rose.

**Where are you? -JW**

**Mrs. Hudson's. She's really nice, did you know?**

**Yeah. –JW**

**Do you always sign your texts like that?**

**Like what? –JW**

**Like '-JW.'**

**Yes. Habit now. –JW**

**I might do the same. –RS**

**;) –JW**

**;P -RS**

"She's at Mrs. Hudson's, if you want to know," John says.

"Good."

"I went to see a job at that surgery."

"How was it?"

"Great. She's great."

"Who?"

"The job."

"She?"

"It," John says firmly.

Sherlock shrugs it off. He nods toward the laptop and says, "Have a look."

John looks at the article on the screen. " 'The Intruder who can Walk through Walls'?"

"Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted, exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God, you think…"

"He's killed another one." Sherlock thinks for a moment. "Text Rose. Tell her we're going to Scotland Yard."

**Rose? –JW**

**Yea? -RS**

**S and I are headed to Scotland Yard. Wanna come? -JW**

**Sure. Be right there –RS**

Rose meets the boys outside 221b. Rose hails them a cab, and they're off.

"Why did you go to Mrs. Hudson's?" John asks, once they were settled in the cab.

"She came in to check on Sherlock, and noticed me. Sherlock wouldn't answer her questions, and she dragged me down to her flat to tell her. Sherlock kept saying he needed quiet, so she couldn't stay there," Rose explains.

"Oh."

"Sherlock? I have a mobile, now. What's your number?" asks Rose.

Sherlock just hands her his phone. Rose rolls her eyes and types his number into her phone.

"How was the job interview?" Rose asks.

"Great. Just great," John answers with a smile.

"Who is she?"

"Hm?"

"The woman you met. Who is she?" Rose asks.

"What?"

Rose rolls her eyes. They arrive presently.

Sherlock immediately finds Dimmock.

"Brian Lukis. Freelance journalist. Murdered, in his flat, doors locked from the inside." Sherlock turns the computer so that the screen is facing Dimmock.

"You've got to admit, it's similar. Both men, killed by someone who can walk through solid walls," John says.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock asks impatiently. Dimmock doesn't answer.

Sherlock sighs. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose, then?"

Dimmock nods.

"And the shot that killed him, was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," Dimmock answers.

"No, so this investigation might move a bit quicker, if you were to take my word as gospel!" Sherlock snaps. "I've just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes, in his flat." _Why is he so reluctant to let me help? _Sherlock thinks_._

oOo

John, Sherlock, and Rose enter Lukis' flat. Sherlock sweeps his gaze over the crime scene. Rose picks up a crumpled piece of black paper. She sneaks it into her pocket.

Sherlock strides over to the window. He notes the height of the flat. He smiles.

"Four floors up! That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, think they're impregnable," he whispers. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," Dimmock falters as Sherlock walks over to a skylight.

"The killer can climb, Inspector," Rose says. Dimmock doesn't listen to her.

"What are you doing?" he asks Sherlock.

"Clings to the walls like an insect." Sherlock opens the skylight. "That's how he got in."

"What?" the inspector is still confused.

"Climbed up the side of he walls, ran across the roof, dropped in through this skylight," Sherlock says.

"You're not serious? Like Spiderman?" the inspector doesn't quite believe him.

"He did scale six floors of a Dockland apartment building to kill Van Coon," Rose interjects. Dimmock pays no attention to her.

"Hold on." Dimmock says.

"And of course, that's how he got into the bank-he ran along the roof and onto the terrace," Sherlock says in amazement. He looks around. "Have to find out what connects these two men." He stares at a book on the floor. It's a library book, saying West Kensington Library.

Sherlock, John, and Rose head to the library.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," Sherlock mumbles. Sherlock, Rose, and John start looking for the shelf that Lukis took the book from.

John finds something. "Sherlock, Rose," he says, looking at the shelf. The graffiti marks are the same as the one in the bank. A horizontal line with a squiggle underneath and another horizontal line, in yellow spray paint. Rose snaps a couple of pictures. They head back to the flat.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies," Sherlock runs through Van Coon's murder.

"The killer find Lukis at the library, writes the cipher on the shelf, where he knows it will be seen, Lukis goes home…" John sums up Lukis' case.

"Later that night, he dies, too," Rose finishes from the couch. She's thinking.

"Why did they die?" John whispers.

Rose hears Sherlock's voice. "Only the cipher can tell us."

"What did Lukis write about? Most of the time, anyways," Rose asks from the couch.

"Well, he had finished writing an article about China," John tells her.

"And Van Coon? He handled the Hong Kong accounts, right?" Rose inquires.

"Yeah."

"Hm."

Sherlock has an idea.

oOo

"The world is run on codes and ciphers. From the million pound security system at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to, John, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment," Sherlock informs them.

"Yes, okay, but…" John starts.

"But it's all computer-generated. Electronic codes, electronic ciphering messages," Sherlock says.

"This, though, this is different. It's old, and ancient," Rose connects.

"Modern code-breaking skills won't unravel it," Sherlock tells them.

"Where are we headed?" John asks.

"I need some advice."

Rose stops dead in her tracks. "What?" she asks.

"What? Sorry?" John asks with a grin.

"You heard me perfectly, I'm not saying it again." Rose smiles and runs to catch up with the men.

"You need advice?" John can't resist asking.

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert."

Sherlock finds a young graffiti artist. He's vandalizing a wall on the side of a building.

"Part of my new exhibition," the vandal says.

Sherlock looks at the graffiti for a moment. "Interesting."

"I call it, Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," the young man says, spraying away.

"Lovely," Rose says. The man turns to her.

"You like it, sweetheart?" the man's voice has changed to something smoother, more cordial.

Rose nods, a little sarcastically. The man turns back to his work. "I've got two minutes before a community support officer comes 'round that corner. Can we talk while I'm working?"

Sherlock shows the man his phone. The man hands John the can of spray paint.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.

"I know the paint. Looks like Michigan, hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc," the man answers.

"What about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"

"I'm not even sure it's a proper language."

Sherlock is losing his patience. "Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"And this is all you got to go on? Nothing much, now is it?" Raz asks.

"You going to help us or not?" Sherlock asks.

"I'll ask around," Raz nods.

"Somebody must know something about it," Sherlock presses.

"Oi!" someone yells. Two community support officers come up. Rose, Sherlock, and Raz run. John is left there, holding a can of spray paint.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" an officer asks John. "This gallery is a listed public building!"

"No, no wait. It's not me who painted that, I was just holding this for…" John looks toward Raz, but he's no longer there. The officer opens Raz's bag.

"Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" the officer asks.

oOo

"You've been a while." Sherlock says as John comes in.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John replies. "Just formalities. Fingerprints, charge sheet, and I've got to be in a magistrate's court on Tuesday."

"What?"

"Me! Sherlock! In court, on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!" John shouts at him.

"Good, fine." Sherlock is absorbed in his work.

"You're welcome to tell your little pal he's welcome to own up, anytime," John spits out.

"Symbol. Still can't place it." Sherlock slams his book shut. John is taking off his jacket. Sherlock puts it back on him. "No, I need you to go to the police station. Ask about the journalist. Get a hold of his diary or something that would tell us his movements."

"Why can't Rose do it?"

"Rose isn't here."

"Sherlock! Can't you keep track of her? She's only fifteen!"

"She's at the National Antiquities museum. She said something needing to think."

"You should have gone with her," John scolds him as they walk downstairs.

"Why should I? She can take care of herself. I'm going to see Van Coon's PA. Retrace their steps. Somewhere, they'll coincide."

John hails a taxi and makes a mental note to talk to Sherlock about Rose.

He gets to Scotland Yard and asks for the journalist's diary. Dimmock rummages around in a bin for it.

"Your friend," Dimmock starts.

"Listen, whatever you say, I'm behind you one hundred percent," assures John.

"He's an arrogant sod."

"Well, that was mild."

"Arrogant and careless. He brings his friend and daughter around with him on these cases?" Dimmock asks.

"No, Rose isn't his daughter, no."

"She looks like him. This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?" Dimmock hands John the small book.

"Just tell her to be careful. She's nice enough. But in this type of work, you get hurt."

oOo

Rose pays the fee to get into the museum. She swiped a few pounds from Sherlock. She wanders around the Chinese exhibits. She notices someone looking distraught.

"Excuse me, can you tell me about these vases?" she asks him.

"Oh, those? Ming vases. Created about six hundred years ago," he answers.

"They're really beautiful," Rose says, looking at them. Or, at least, she pretends to look at them. She's really examining the man's expression in the reflection of the vases. He looks worried.

"My name's Rose," she introduces herself.

The man smiles. "I'm Andy."

"Nice to meet you, Andy. It must be amazing to work here, surrounded by all this history," Rose says.

Andy agrees. "It's really neat."

"Well, why are you upset, then? What's wrong?" Rose gently prods.

Andy freezes. "Nothing's wrong."

"Oh, please. I can tell something's bothering you. Can I hear what's wrong? I would like to know," Rose says.

Andy sighs. "Well, I'm worried about a friend. She used to work here. She was a Chinese antiquities expert. But now she's resigned."

"Nothing unusual about that," Rose comments.

"It's just that, well, I know her. Better than anyone else here, anyways. And she was working on something. These teapots," Andy walks her over, "she was obsessed with them. She absolutely loved them, and she was working on them. I can't believe that she would leave right in the middle of something important like this."

"Maybe she had family troubles?" Rose offers.

Andy shakes his head. "That's what she said in her letter, but she doesn't have any family. She came here alone, from China."

"Well, you know her better than I do. Do you think there could have been some other reason she left?"

Andy rubs the back of his neck. "It has been," he says slowly, "suggested, that she wanted to get away from unwanted attention."

Rose notes his posture and body language. She realizes he thought that he had been giving her 'unwanted attention'.

"You have a bad feeling about this?" Rose asks.

"Yeah. Sort of."

"What's her name?"

"Soo Lin Yao."

"And her address?" Rose asks.

Andy gives Rose Soo Lin's address. Rose asks for Andy's mobile number and address, and he gives them to her.

"One more thing. What was the last thing she did on Monday?"

Andy walks Rose downstairs. "She does this demonstration, for the tourists. Uh, a tea ceremony. So, she would have packed up her things and just put them in here," Andy walks over to the cabinets. Rose watches him for a moment, then looks around. She sees a painted statue. She gasps.

The statue had graffiti on it, just like the other two. A horizontal line with a squiggle underneath, and then another horizontal line.

"Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"What's this?" Rose points to the statue.

"Not supposed to be there," Andy quips, laughing a little nervously. "You don't thing Soo Lin did that?"

"No, I don't." Rose whips out her camera and takes pictures of the statue.

"Thanks for your help, Andy. I need to go see Soo Lin now." Rose practically runs out of the museum. "Taxi!" she shouts.

oOo

Rose gets to Soo Lin's house and rings the bell. She opens the mail flap and shouts Soo Lin's name. Rose sighs and looks around. She sees John and Sherlock across the street. They're walking towards the shop next door, the Lucky Cat. She follows them in.

"I was just going to text you," John says as she walks in. "I thought you were at the museum."

"I was. Tell you later," Rose says, catching the shop lady's eye.

They browse around the shop for a little bit. Rose is getting a little creeped out by all the cats.

"Sherlock? Rose?" John calls out. "The label there?"

"Yes, I see it," Sherlock says. Rose stares at it.

"Exactly the same as the cipher." John looks at both of them. They exit the shop quickly.

"It's a number system! Chinese method, called Hangzhou. I remember them, that's why they look so familiar! The horizontal bar is the number one, and the line with the squiggly line underneath is the number fifteen!" Rose crows.

They enter a Chinese restaurant. John orders some food and instructs Rose to do the same.

"I'm not hungry, though," Rose declares.

"You need to eat. You're still growing," Sherlock tells her. Rose turns to him, eyes bright with mischief.

"I'll eat if you eat."

John frowns. "Rose, you have to eat something."

"I told you, I'll eat if Sherlock eats. I'll even eat the same thing."

Sherlock sighs. "I don't eat when I'm on a case, if at all. It slows me down."

"Well, I don't have to eat either, then."

"Don't make me force-feed you," John growls.

"I'd like to see you try," Rose smirks. The waitress looks at all three of them.

"If that's all for you," she tries to excuse herself from the awkward conversation.

"Yes, please, that's it," Sherlock says. _Why doesn't she want to eat?_

"Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John wonders aloud.

"Its not what they saw. It's what they brought back," says Rose excitedly. "Think about it. Sebastian said that Van Coon was a brilliant trader. He lost five million pounds and made it back within a week. That's how he made up the money."

"He was a smuggler," John says.

"Very clever. Van Coon was a businessman, just came back from China. He smuggled something out, and Lucky Cat was the drop-off. Lukis was the same. But then why," Rose leans back in her chair, "why did they die? And what does she have to do with this?" she whispers the last sentence.

"Maybe one of them was light-fingered," suggests Sherlock.

"Hm?" Rose is deep in thought.

"How do you mean?" John asks at the same time.

"Stole something, something from the horde," says Sherlock.

"And the killer doesn't know which one of them took it, so he kills them both," John pieces together the thought.

Rose realizes something. "That's why she went missing!" She bolts from the table and runs to Soo Lin's apartment. Sherlock follows without hesitation. John runs after both of them.

Rose rings the buzzer one last time. After receiving no answer, she goes around the back.

"What is it?" John asks, a little breathless.

"Soo Lin Yao lives here. Chinese antiquities expert. Resigned job today. Found graffiti marks near where she had been working," Rose explains. She spots an open window and a fire escape. Rose jumps, grabs the ladder, and climbs up.

"Rose! You can't just break in!" John yells after her.

"The window's open!" Rose yells back. Sherlock follows Rose.

She pauses for a moment and looks around inside the flat.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock hisses impatiently.

"Looking around. Always the safe thing to do when you're going into unknown territory," Rose hisses back. She climbs in carefully. Sherlock knocks over a vase when he gets in, though.

"Sherlock. Someone's been here before us," Rose whispers. She checks her pocket, makes sure her gun is still there.

"Yes. Size of his feet?" he quizzes her.

"Small. Size eight," she answers.

"Good. He's athletic, too." Sherlock walks around the flat. He smells the laundry and the milk. _Both_ _are disgusting._

"Sherlock? Rose? Can you let me in?" John shouts from the mail flap. Rose and Sherlock don't answer.

"Can you not do this, please?" John yells.

Sherlock looks at a childhood photograph. There were handprints on it. "Small, strong hands," he informs Rose. Rose looks at the picture.

"That's weird. She doesn't have any family," Rose says, looking at the picture.

John bellows something about Sherlock's massive intellect. _Really, John?_

_Something nags at the back of Sherlock's head. Why was the window open? If the killer left, why would he leave the window open? It looks odd when one is on vacation. So why…Oh._

"Rose," Sherlock whispers.

"Yes?" she whispers back.

"Someone's here with us."

Rose draws her gun. She holds it out in front of her. She spots the screen and moves towards it. Rose pushes it back and something loops around her throat.

"Gah, ah," she chokes. She strains against her attacker and tries to kick him or step on his feet. She claws at the fabric constricting her windpipe.

Sherlock runs towards the man choking her, but he swings around and puts Rose in front of him, like a human shield.

"Sher…Sherlock…" Rose tosses him her gun. The assassin jerks at the last second, making Rose throw erratically. The gun lands on the opposite side of the room, out of Sherlock's reach.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…." Rose strains, but it's futile. Her eyes roll back in her head. She goes limp. Rose feels the assassin put something in her pocket.

"Let her go now!" Sherlock growls. The assassin drops Rose and runs out the open window.

Rose is completely limp. Sherlock checks her pulse. _She's fine. She's been through worse, _he tells himself._ Why won't her eyes open? Wake up!_

"Come on, Rose, come on," Sherlock shakes her gently. Rose's eyes open. She coughs and chokes for a moment, then clears her throat. _She's okay!_

"Where is he?" Rose's voice is really wheezy.

"Gone."

"Okay then. He put something in my pocket, though," Rose feels for it. "Here."

It was a perfectly folded black flower. "Hey, it matches the one I found in Lukis' apartment!" Rose pulls the crumpled one out of her other pocket. "Well, sort of."

"Let's get out of here. We need John to check on you, though."

"Oh, please. I've been through worse. It embarrassing, actually, I even was unconscious in the first place," Rose scoffs.

Sherlock just glares at her. Rose sighs and agrees to have John check on her. Sherlock retrieves Rose's gun from the corner of the room. They leave Soo Lin's flat and meet John outside.

"Somebody left this flat in a hurry three days ago," Sherlock tells John, never taking his eyes off of Rose. "The killer was in the flat with us. He tried to strangle Rose."

"Oh, God, are you okay?" John asks. He checks her throat and pulse.

"I'm fine, John," Rose croaks out. John prescribes rest for her. Sherlock accompanies them back to the flat.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

John

"I'm fine, John," Rose croaks out. John prescribes rest for her. Sherlock accompanies them back to the flat.

"John? Do I have to?" Rose whines.

"Yes!" John answers for the umpteenth time. They were in 221b, after coming back from Soo Lin's flat. Rose had been strangled into unconsciousness by the killer of Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon. _God, bloody Dimmock was right. You do get hurt in this business._

Rose flops onto the sofa. "I don't need rest, John. I'm fine."

"Doctor's orders." John pulls a blanket over her. "I'm going to make you some tea and soup, and you will drink both if I have to shove it down your throat." John goes into the kitchen and motions for Sherlock to follow.

"Please tell me you did something while Rose was being strangled," John says as he boils some water. "And not that you just stood there and watched, or that you just continued to look for clues."

"The attacker used Rose as a human shield. I would have done something, but he…" Sherlock pauses.

"He what?"

"He would have killed her," Sherlock finishes lamely.

"He almost did, Sherlock!" John breathes through his nostrils in an attempt to calm down. John puts the soup on the stove. "She had a gun. Why didn't you take it?"

"She tried to throw it to me, but the assassin jerked at the last second, so it flew out of my reach."

"And you couldn't run over and grab it?"

Sherlock sighs. "I froze, John. I froze. It never happened to me before, and it was all I could do just to watch."

John isn't going to forgive him so easily, though. As he pours the soup into a bowl, he asks, "So you were just going to watch as the life went out of her eyes?"

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispers, guilt evidence in his voice.

"Just tell me something, Sherlock. Do you care about Rose at all?" John looks Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock looks away. John sighs and pours the tea into a mug. He brings the mug and bowl out to Rose, who is texting away on her new phone.

"What are you doing?" John asks as he sets the food and drink down.

"Texting. John, even a two-year old could see that," Rose smiles.

"And who are you texting?" John inquires, politely as he can.

"Andy."

"Who's Andy?"

"A guy I met," Rose says breezily.

John and Sherlock raise an eyebrow in unison.

"I thought you wouldn't be interested in boys," Sherlock says, off-handedly.

"I'm not."

John's eyebrow disappears into his hair. "Oh, are girls more your thing? Which is completely and totally fine, by the way," he adds hastily. _Smooth, John. Sound a bit familiar?_ He bit a smile back, remembering that infinitely awkward conversation at Angelo's.

"I know it's fine," Rose says, turning to face the adults.

"But you had a boyfriend." John is puzzled.

"I did."

John and Sherlock wait.

"Oh, I see. You immediately assume that because I'm texting a bloke, I must be interested? How dull," Rose says coldly. "This is for the case."

"I told you to get some rest!" John is exasperated. _Why won't she listen? God…_

Rose turns back to her phone. "I can rest when I'm dead."

John grits his teeth at that. Sherlock stiffens. Rose doesn't notice.

"Man can't text halfway fast enough!" she growls. She leaps off the couch and heads for the door. "I'm going to go see him." She runs out of the flat.

"I should confiscate her phone," John mutters. He glances at Sherlock. "Are we going to follow her?"

"I suppose."

Outside, though, Raz spots them. "Sherlock!" he yells.

"Oh, look who it is," John says.

He runs over to them and says, "Found something you'll like." Raz leads them through London.

"Tuesday morning, all you have to do is show up and say the bag was yours," John tells him as they walk.

"Forget about your court date," Sherlock snaps. Raz doesn't say anything. He brings them to an underground room. It looks like a skateboarding park, with graffiti galore on the walls and pillars.

"If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" asks Sherlock. "People would walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

"There," Raz points. "I spotted it earlier."

"And that's the exact same paint?" Sherlock confirms.

"Yeah," Raz answers.

"John, if we're going to decipher this code, we're going to need to look for more evidence," says Sherlock. John and Sherlock split up and look for clues.

Sherlock finds an empty spray paint can. It's yellow, and he wipes his thumb across the nozzle, to smell how fresh it is.

John wanders through hallways and corridors, looking for any sign of the graffiti.

Sherlock finds an advertisement for a Chinese circus. He tears a piece of the poster off and keeps walking.

John finally stumbles across the graffiti. It's huge, and encompasses an entire wall. He calls Sherlock several times. No answer. _Typical. The one time I find something and call him, he doesn't answer._ He snaps a few pictures really quick and runs off to find Sherlock.

John spots him by railway tracks. "Answer your phone, I've been calling you!" he pants. "I've found it." Sherlock follows John.

John leads him back to the wall of graffiti. He slows, unsure suddenly. "It's been painted over," he says. "I don't understand. It, it was here. Ten minutes ago, I saw it. A lot of graffiti."

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock says. He grabs John by the sides of his head suddenly.

"John, concentrate! I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes!"

"What? Why? What are you doing?"

"I need you to maximize your visual memory." Sherlock spins John around slowly. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah."

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How much can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry!"

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Well don't worry, I can remember all of it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, well, at least I would, if I could get to my pockets!" John breaks away from Sherlock and fumbles around. "Took a photograph." He shows Sherlock.

_God, it's as if I'm an imbecile! Which, to him, I probably am…_ John muses.

oOo

Back at the flat, John contemplates sleep. Sherlock just stares at the pictures, trying to make sense of the symbols.

"Always in pairs, John," Sherlock tells him. "The numbers come with partners."

"God, I need to sleep," John whispers. _Please, Sherlock, please. Allow me ten minutes of sleep._

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John answers.

"Thousands of people pass by there everyday," Sherlock whispers.

"Just twenty minutes," John mumbles.

"Of course," Sherlock breathes. "Of course! He wants information, he's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back. Somewhere, here, in code." Sherlock just stares at the pictures for a minute. He whips out his phone and texts Rose.

**Any leads on Soo Lin Yao? –SH**

**Why? –RS**

**Do you have any leads? –SH**

**Depends on if you tell me why. –RS**

**We need her. Can't break the code without her. –SH**

**I already knew that. –RS**

**Do you have any leads? –SH** Sherlock types, frustrated.

**Yes. –RS**

**Where is she? –SH**

**I don't know where she is now, but I know where she will be. I'm at the National Antiquities Museum. Andy left me a key. There's a side door on the east side that's open. Come quickly, she'll be here soon. –RS**

"Come on, John. We can't crack this code without Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock brings the pictures with him.

"Oh, good."

oOo

Rose meets them at the Chinese exhibit. She puts her finger to her lips, telling them to be quiet. She motions for Sherlock to give her gun back, which he does.

She whispers, "She's going to come for those teapots. They're her obsession. She is going to unlock the exhibit, there, and bring the teapots to her desk. Sherlock, you're going to surprise her. Please catch the teapot if she drops it. It's ancient." As she finishes talking, the trio hears a metal scraping against stone.

Rose and John hurry to hide. Sherlock moves behind a door. The lights go out, and a shadowy figure walks towards the teapot exhibit. The person unlocks the glass cabinet, and walks away with a teapot.

The shadowy person fills the teapot with water, pouring water over the teacups and swirling water around inside the teapot. Sherlock chooses this moment to startle the figure.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?"

The person gasps and drops the teapot. With amazing reflexes, Sherlock catches it.

"Centuries old. Don't want to break that," Sherlock says with a smirk on his face. Rose turns on the lights to reveal the face of Soo Lin Yao.

"Hello," Sherlock says.

"You saw the cipher. Then you know he is coming for me," Soo Lin says, looking at all three of them. John sits opposite Soo Lin, Rose stands at the far end of the table, and Sherlock sits next to her.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," is Sherlock's response.

"I had to finish, to finish this work," Soo Lin says simply. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he? Have you met him before?" Sherlock asks.

"When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognized his, signature."

"The cipher," Sherlock states. It's not a question.

"Only he would do this," Soo Lin says. "Zhizhu."

"Zhizhu?" John asks.

"Mandarin for bird-spider. Considering his skills, I guess it's close enough," Rose answers.

Soo Lin unlaces her sneaker and shows the three of them the heel of her right foot. There is a black lotus flower tattooed on her heel.

"You know this mark?"

"Yes," Sherlock and Rose answer.

"It's the mark of the Tong," Sherlock says.

"Hm?" John is confused.

"Ancient crime syndicate, based in China," Sherlock tells him. John nods and looks back at Soo Lin.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who holes for them," Soo Lin says.

"Holes?" John asks. Soo Lin glares at him pointedly. "You mean, you were a smuggler?"

Rose looks at John sadly. John catches her sad smile. _I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. Look at Rose. She was forced to kill people. Smuggling isn't so bad, compared to that._

Soo Lin puts her shoe back on. "I was fifteen." _Rose's age_. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving, day-to-day. Except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock asks.

"They are called," Soo Lin pauses, gathering courage, "the Black Lotus."

Sherlock files that information away for later.

Soo Lin continues speaking. "By the time I was sixteen, I was smuggling thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong.

"But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England. They gave me a job, here," Soo Lin smiles, as if she can still barely believe it. _Now, she's protecting Chinese history, instead of mucking it up_, John thinks.

"Everything was good." Soo Lin continues. "New life."

"But he came looking for you," Sherlock says.

"Yes." Soo Lin looks terrified. She swallows back tears. "I had hoped, after five years, maybe they would have forgotten me." Soo Lin's lips close in a tight line, stifling sobs. "But they never really let you leave."

Rose looks stricken at those words. If John and Sherlock had seen her, they would have instantly known her train of thought. Her expression is naked. Every façade has disappeared.

She is reliving every encounter she ever had with Moriarty. From the night her parents died to only a few days ago. Memories seared into her brain are flashing across her mind's eye. His empty eyes, a void. The way he would terrify her into obedience. The way he would punish her every time she rebelled. The things he taught her, how to observe, how to analyze, how to think. But she sets her face into a stone mask.

"In a small community like ours, they are never very far away. He came to my flat," Soo Lin keeps talking. "He asked me to help him, to track down something that had been stolen."

"And you have no idea what it was?" John inquires.

Soo Lin shakes her head. "I refused to help."

John leans forward. "So you knew him well, when you were living back in China?"

"Oh, yes," Soo Lin answers. "He's my brother.

"Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets, like beggars."

Rose looks at Soo Lin Yao. She continues, "My brother is their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan, Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. The next day I came to work, and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock pulls out the pictures of the ciphers he had printed out. "Can you decipher these?"

Soo Lin starts from the beginning. "These are numbers."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says.

"Here, the line across the man's eyes, is the Chinese number one."

"And this one is number fifteen," Sherlock says impatiently. "But what's the code?"

Soo Lin looks at him. "All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book-"

The lights go out.

Sherlock straightens and listens.

"He is here. Zhizhu," Soo Lin whispers. "He has found me."

Sherlock runs off. John, in a stage whisper, says, "Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!"

After it's apparent that Sherlock has no intention of listening, he takes Soo Lin by the hand and has her hide behind one of the desks. Rose follows. "Get down, get down."

John hears shots. He turns to Soo Lin and tells her, "I have to go and help him." Looking at Rose, he tells her, "Keep her safe." Rose nods, and John runs out.

Rose whispers to Soo Lin, "I'm going to sit in front of you. Spread your legs." Soo Lin does as Rose says. Rose sits in front of Soo Lin, establishing herself as a human shield. She brings her gun out of her pocket and takes off the safety.

Rose whispers to Soo Lin, "I promise you, you are going to live through this. The Black Lotus has no say over your life, whether you live or die. You are going to live a long and happy life after tonight. I promise."

Soo Lin chuckles softly. "I believe you. You are full of fire, little girl. How could I not believe you will keep me safe?"

Rose smiles in the darkness. "Name's Rose. My story is, uh, kind of like yours. My parents died, and this maniac kidnapped me and taught me things I didn't want to be taught. I learned how to use this stupid gun." Rose glares at it, as if the gun was responsible for all her problems. "I learned how to steal people's lives. But I didn't want to. I left."

"And these men, they help you stay sane after all you've been through?"

Rose looks forward. "In a way. I get to use my knowledge of things to help save people. That's more than I can ask for." She pauses. "Why didn't you fly to, I don't know, America, or Canada, once you knew the Tong were after you? Why did you stay and risk your life?"

"I had to finish my work. I was so close to finishing."

Rose contemplates that. She says, "There was a bloke at the museum. His name's Andy."

Soo Lin blushes. "What about him?"

"Well, he likes you. More than in a friendly way. He was the one who noticed that you disappeared."

"He is very nice," Soo Lin agrees.

"After tonight, are you going to see him again?"

"Maybe. Probably."

"Soo Lin, do you have a thing for him?" Rose feels Soo Lin's pulse start to race. "You do!" she whispers, smiling.

"Tell you what. After tonight, I'm going to set you two up. On a proper date. You and him, yeah?"

Soo Lin turns tomato red, glad that Rose can't see her. "I liked him before. I just couldn't bring myself to date him. I was a criminal. I didn't want him to hate me."

"God, Soo Lin, are you blind? The man is infatuated with you! I think you could be an alien with three heads and he'd still love you," Rose laughs quietly.

"We should meet up again, after tonight. I can meet you at your flat," Rose suggests.

"Sounds good."

Rose turns to look at Soo Lin. "Seriously?"

At that precise moment, Rose hears two shots. Soo Lin's face contorts to one of agony. Soo Lin clutches her side. Rose looks at Soo Lin's left side, and her eyes widen.

A red stain is growing. Two bullets have entered Soo Lin's torso. Rose leaps up and covers Soo Lin's left side, to protect her from further bullets. Soo Lin slumps down on the stone floor.

"No! Soo Lin, I promised!" she gasps. Rose exposes the wound and examines it, trying to find the bullets.

Soo Lin only groans in response.

"You are going to live a long life, a long and happy life! I'm not going to let you die!" Rose pulls out her phone and dials 999. She hastily says National Antiquities Museum and ambulance, and then hangs up.

Rose tries to staunch the bleeding, but there's blood, so much blood. Soo Lin looks at Rose with glassy eyes.

"It's okay. I knew he would find me," Soo Lin coughs, blood splattering her lips.

"No! It's **not** okay!" Rose leans into Soo Lin. "You have to go on that date with Andy, remember? Hang on. Ambulance are coming. Please, Soo Lin. Please, hang on for him," Rose breathes.

Soo Lin closes her eyes, and Rose can see that she's trying to stay. She's trying not to slip away. But it's hard. It's very, very hard. Rose knows from experience.

"I can't." The two most heartbreaking words Rose has ever heard in her life.

"Yes, you can. Stay, Soo Lin. Stay," Rose whispers, tears in her eyes. She knows that it's almost impossible for a victim to live after they've given up.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

Soo Lin's breaths wrack her body one last time, and then her body is still. Rose stares in shock. She blinks back her tears and whispers her last goodbye to Soo Lin. One last goodbye, too late.

"Rest in peace. May you live happier then you ever did on this godforsaken planet."

Rose slowly turns away and faces the empty room. Somewhere lays an assassin.

"She was supposed to live!" Her words reverberate throughout the room. "She was going to live a long and happy life, free from you! But no, you just couldn't help yourself. You had to go and kill her! Your own sister!" Rose screams. She takes a deep breath.

"Don't play games with me," Rose snarls. "You killed someone I liked. And that is not a good place to stand. Fear every strange noise you hear. Fear every shadow you see. Fear me, Spider."

Rose receives silence in return, but she knows that the Spider has heeded her warning. Rose spins around to see the teapot. Her rage overwhelms her, and she smashes the ancient relic to bits. If it hadn't been for the stupid teapots, she might have lived.

"Rose?" Sherlock approaches her, gently. He stands by her and examines Soo Lin.

Rose feels dead and numb inside. Every breath is laborious. Every movement a Herculean achievement.

"Rose? Oh God," John says. He spots the body.

Police and ambulance are outside. Too late.

oOo

"How many murders is it going to take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John asks Dimmock. They're back at Scotland Yard.

Dimmock says nothing and walks straight past them.

"A young girl was gunned down tonight. That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him!" John is furious. Dimmock continues to ignore him.

Sherlock tries his hand. "Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers. A gang called the Black Lotus. Operating here, in London, right under your nose."

Dimmock is rattled. "Can you prove that?"

Sherlock straightens, as if Dimmock just insulted him.

oOo

At Bart's, Molly Hooper is choosing what to eat in the cafeteria. She is startled by Sherlock Holmes.

"What are you thinking? Pork or the pasta?" Sherlock startles her.

"Oh, it's you," Molly says shyly.

"I'd stick with the pasta. Don't want roast pork if you're slicing up cadavers," Sherlock says.

"What are you having?"

"Don't eat while I'm working. Digesting slows me down."

"So you're working here tonight?" Molly asks, a note of hope in her voice.

"I need to examine some bodies."

"Some?"

"Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

Molly checks her clipboard. "They're on my list," she says, comprehension slowly dawning on her.

"Could you wheel them out again for me?" Sherlock asks.

"W-Well, their paperwork's already gone through. Sorry," Molly says.

Sherlock looks confused for a moment. Then, his eyes flicker to Molly's hair. "You've changed your hair," he notices.

"What?" Molly looks confused.

"The style. It's usually parted in the middle."

"Yes, well-"

"No, it's good. It suits you better this way," Sherlock says, smiling at her. Molly turns around and leads him to the bodies.

Molly starts to unzip the bags.

"We're just interested in the feet," comes Sherlock's melodic voice.

"The feet?" Molly clarifies.

"Yes. Do you mind if we have a look at them?" Sherlock smiles at Molly again, but she doesn't notice.

"Where's Rose?" Dimmock asks.

"At the flat. Why?" Sherlock answers

"No reason."

Molly unzips the bottom zipper to reveal Lukis' feet. A tattoo was on his right heel.

"Now Van Coon," Sherlock tells Molly. She unzips Van Coon's bag. Van Coon had the same tattoo, on the same foot.

"Oh," Sherlock says triumphantly.

"So," Dimmock starts.

"So, either these two men happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlor, or I am telling the truth."

Dimmock sees he's beaten. "What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment, and Van Coon's."

"Their books?" Dimmock asks.

oOo

John opens the door of their flat. He hears loud music coming from a pair of speakers set to full volume. Rose is lost in thought.

"Rose!" John shouts, but she can't hear him, the music is so loud. "Rose!"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust at the music. He unplugs the speakers.

"Turn it back on, I was listening to that," Rose snaps.

"Where did you get all this?" John asks.

"All what?" Rose has her eyes closed, so she doesn't see John gesturing to the new technology.

"The speakers, the iPod, and the headphones. Where did you get them?"

"I bought them," is her serene reply. "Turn the music back on."

"Where did you get the money?" John asks.

"I used Sherlock's card."

"What?" Sherlock is outraged. "You used my card for something as dull as music players? It's not even good music," he mutters.

"Music helps me think. I pay no attention to the lyrics. My only focus is the beat of the music," Rose replies. "I also bought a book."

"Oh. Well, if it helps you think, good. But don't play it out here. Play it in John's room or something."

"Rose, you can't just take his card and buy stuff you want with it," John says.

"Isn't that what a card is for?"

"Give me the card," John commands her. Rose gives him the card.

"It's not just a criminal organization. It's a cult," Sherlock removes his jacket and scarf and hangs them on the back of the door. "The brother was corrupted by one of its leaders."

"Soo Lin mentioned a name," John says.

"Shan," Rose tells him. "Black Lotus general."

"We're still no closer to finding him," John says.

"Wrong," Sherlock says. "We've got almost everything we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces."

John merely looks at him.

"Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need her expertise?"

"She worked at the museum."

"Exactly."

"She was an expert in antiquities." John makes the connection. "Of course, I see."

"Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures, all hidden after Mao's revolution."

"The Black Lotus is selling them?"

Sherlock checks something online.

Rose calls out in a condescending voice, "Yes. I've already checked."

"Checked what?" John asks.

"There are valuable Chinese items up for auction. Some are from an anonymous vendor. Every time something has been up for sale by the anonymous vendor, it has corresponded with Lukis' or Van Coon's trips to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy while they were in China? What if one of them stole something?" Sherlock asks Rose.

"It must have been something small and ordinary looking to the thief. But, it would have to be of immense value to the smugglers, because it was noticed so quickly," Rose says.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door. "Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"A young man is outside with crates of books."

About fifteen minutes later, all of the books from Lukis' and Van Coon's apartment are in the flat of 221b.

"So, the numbers are references," Sherlock says.

"Two books," says John.

"Specific pages, and specific words on those pages."

"Right, so, fifteen and one," John trails off.

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word that you read," Sherlock says.

"Okay, but what's the message?" John asks.

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book code." Sherlock faces the piles of books. "It has to be one that they both own."

"Okay, fine. Well, this shouldn't take too long, then," John says, a little sarcastically.

Rose springs off the couch, and with maniac energy, starts rummaging around through the crates. Sherlock and John stare at her. In about two minutes, she's cleaned out an entire crate.

Dimmock walks in. "We found these at the museum." He holds up the pictures of the cipher. "Is this your handwriting?" he asks John.

"Uh, we hoped that Soo Lin could decipher it for us," John says softly.

Dimmock nods. "Anything else I can do? To assist you, I mean?"

"Some silence right now would be marvelous," Sherlock tells him.

"We're good, right now. But thanks for asking," Rose says without looking at the man.

Dimmock leaves. The trio stay up all night to find the book. John's watch beeps. He looks at it and groans. _I have to go to work, and I have had no sleep_. He leaves. Neither Rose nor Sherlock notice, he thinks.

oOo

"A book that everyone would own, Rose. What book does everybody own?"

"Plus, the first word on page fifteen has to terrify the living daylights out of three people. What word does that?" Rose muses.

oOo

John comes back hours later, and both geniuses are still at it. _I'm going to bet neither one of them stopped at all when I was gone._

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight," Sherlock informs John.

"Actually, I've got a date."

"What?" _It's not that hard to believe, is it?_

"Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?" John asks. _Has he really never heard of a date before?_

"That's what I was suggesting." _I'm sorry?_

"No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."

"Sherlock, he meant two people who like each other romantically," Rose tells Sherlock. She's still looking for the book.

"Where are you taking her?" Sherlock asks.

"Cinema."

"Dull. Boring. Predictable." Sherlock hands John something else. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only."

John chuckles. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

oOo

"It's been years since someone took me to the circus," Sarah tells John as they walk in.

"Yeah, a friend recommended it," John replies. _A Chinese circus, Sherlock? Coincidence? I think not!_

"Two tickets, please." John tells the man at the desk.

"What's the name?"

"Holmes."

"Sorry, sir, but I have four in that name," the man says.

"No, I don't think so. We only booked two," John says.

"And then I phoned and got two more as well," says Sherlock. He walks towards the couple, Rose at his heels.

"I'm Sherlock. This is Rose," Sherlock introduces himself and Rose to Sarah.

"Um, hi," Sarah says.

"Hello!" Sherlock dashes off.

"Dreadfully sorry about my dad. John told us that he was taking a friend to the movies, and Dad suggested this instead. John thought it was a great idea, and Dad phoned on the spot. Later, he decided that we should go as well. He can be a bit, um, eccentric," Rose tells Sarah apologetically.

"Oh, okay," Sarah laughs. She's more comfortable now.

"Please, don't let us interrupt your evening. I've got to go find the crazy guy now. Have a nice night!" Rose says goodbye and dashes off to find Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" Rose finds him standing in a corner. "Sherlock, we are **not **going to interrupt their evening, is that clear? John deserves one night off."

"But I need his help!" Sherlock whines.

"I know I'm not as good as John, but you've got me. Plus, Sarah seems nice," Rose tells him. Sherlock looks at her strangely.

The circus begins, and Rose keeps Sherlock well away from John and Sarah. Sherlock notices a door going to backstage in the middle of the escapology act.

"Follow me," Sherlock says. He sneaks backstage, and Rose follows.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Author's note: Usually, italics are thoughts, right? They're the thoughts of our big three here. In this part, bold and italics combined are another person's thoughts.**

Rose 

"Follow me," Sherlock says. He sneaks backstage, and Rose follows.

Sherlock strides into a dressing room. He and Rose take a quick look around, but they are unable to gather any evidence before a performer comes in. They hide behind a costume rack. _Uncomfortable, and it smells._

The performer checks a mobile. She hears someone call her name and walks away. Sherlock spots cans of spray paint. He sprays a mirror to check that it is the same paint. But he hears Rose's gun cock. Sherlock looks in the mirror and sees a strange sight.

The would-be-attacker holds a sword in the air, but he drops it as he sees Rose's gun. Rose speaks to him rapidly in Mandarin, and he answers in turn. Rose lowers her gun, and the attacker takes the opportunity to push her off the stage and into the act below.

Sherlock, in retaliation, sprays the man's eyes with the paint. Blindly, he stumbles about in a rage and falls off the stage. Sherlock jumps off the stage and onto the wooden floor to join them. John sees them and immediately runs over to help. Rose has already rebounded from her fall, and knocked the attacker unconscious with the butt of her gun. The rest of the audience screams and runs away in panic.

John is dealing with one of the other performers, the one introduced as the deadly Bird-Spider. _Zhizhu,_ she thinks. He is trying to strangle John, with his back to Rose. _Like I'm going to let that happen._ Rose aims quickly and fires a single shot at Zhizhu's leg, and he screams in pain. He lets go of John and runs away, limping. _Leaving a blood trail. Messy, messy._

Rose is more concerned with John than Zhizhu, so she tries to make sure that he's okay. _Pulse, well, what's normal for him? Conscious, that has to be good. He's not breathing weirdly. Wow. I'm horrible at this_. Rose helps John stand up, and he finds Sarah, who, amazingly, didn't run away in the chaos.

Sherlock takes off the attacker's shoes and sees the Tong symbol on his foot. Rose snaps a picture of the tattoo and of the attacker's face. _Well, that was fun_, she thinks.

"Come on, let's go!" Sherlock takes Rose's hand and runs. John takes Sarah's and follows them.

oOo

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted!" Dimmock fumes.

"Look, I saw a mark at the circus. The tattoo we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong!" Sherlock protests.

"I took a picture. It was there." Rose shows Dimmock. He snatches Rose's cell phone away from her and glares at the mobile device.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation. One of them stole something while they were in China. Something valuable," John says.

"The circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back!" Sherlock tells Dimmock.

"Get what back?" Dimmock waits. He hands Rose back her mobile.

"We don't know," Rose says as she takes her mobile back.

"You don't know?" Dimmock repeats, confounded. He sits in his chair.

"Mister Holmes, I have done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Sherlock rolls his eyes. But Rose knows better. _He's pleased_.

Dimmock continues talking. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it, other than a massive bill for overtime."

Sherlock just turns and walks out. John and Sarah follow him, but Rose stays behind.

"I'm sorry, sir." _And really, I am._

oOo

They get back to the flat. _Bit crowded_. Sarah, Rose, John, and Sherlock. And the books. Rose can hardly navigate around the flat.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John says gloomily.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," Sherlock replies. "We need to find a hideout, a rendezvous. Somewhere, in this message, it must tell us." Sherlock stares at the pictures of the ciphers.

Sarah looks at all three of them, then says, "Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it."

Sherlock and John talk at the same time.

John says, "No, no, no, you can stay."

Sherlock says, "Yes. It would probably be best if you left now."

John gets the final word in. "He's kidding. Please stay if you like."

Sarah chuckles, then says, "Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

"Oh, God," Sherlock whispers.

John starts to look for some food, while Rose, Sarah, and Sherlock are left in the living room.

"So this is what you do? You and John and Rose, you solve puzzles for a living?" Sarah asks incredulously.

"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrects.

"Oh."

Rose remains silent. She's thinking about the book, the ciphers, and the gang members.

Sarah looks at the work over Sherlock's shoulder. "What are these squiggles?" she points to the cipher.

"They're numbers," Sherlock tells her brusquely. "An ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right, yeah. Well, 'course. I should have known that."

Rose comes out of her reverie. She steers Sarah away from Sherlock. "Sorry, he's really rather impatient. He's lovely when he's not working-"

Rose sees the picture of the cipher that Sherlock took to the museum. _To have Soo Lin translate it._ She snatches the paper off the table and takes it out of the wrapping. Sarah looks at it, too.

Rose immediately recalls everything she saw at the museum at Soo Lin's desk. Then, she cross-references those books with the books from Lukis' and Van Coon's flat.

"So these numbers, they're a cipher?"

"Exactly," Sherlock affirms.

"And every pair of numbers is a word?"

"How did you know that?" Sherlock asks her, finally looking properly at Sarah.

"Well, two words have already been translated, here." The detective walks over to Rose and Sarah. Sarah points out the two words written in English.

"John? John, look at this." Sherlock calls him over. "Soo Lin at the museum. She started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it."

"Nine mill," Rose breathes. _Nine and million. What book would have those two words in it? Any book could, but Soo Lin wouldn't have fiction books at her workstation. So, what book would everyone have, that would be commonplace enough to bring to work and not look out of place? Things to do with work, inspirational texts, reference books. What book did all three of them have in common?_

"Nine millions?" John asks quizzically.

"Nine million quid. For what?" Sherlock grabs his jacket and scarf. "We need to know the end of this sentence."

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"The museum, the Restoration Room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!" Sherlock says.

"Staring at what?"

"The book, John! The book! Soo Lin had it at her workstation, she started to translate it before she died. It must have been right there, staring us in the face!" Rose snaps, finally impatient at how slow John is. _God, he is so clever. So much cleverer than other people. Why doesn't he just think sometimes?_

Sherlock runs out the door.

"Yeah, no, absolutely. A quiet night in, just what the doctor ordered. I mean, I'd love to go out every evening and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters, but a girl can get too much," Sarah says. John chuckles, and Rose smiles. _I see why he likes her. I hope she sticks around._

"Should we get a take-away?" John asks, smiling.

"Yeah."

Rose sprawls on the couch, still thinking about which book all three people owned when it hits her. She opens her phone to text Sherlock which book it is when she hears the ringer buzz.

"Well, that was quick," John remarks. He walks toward the door, but Rose stops him.

"How long ago did you order take-away?" she whispers.

"About seven, eight minutes ago. Why?" John whispers back.

_Too fast. Much too fast. It's not the take-away_. Rose reaches into her pocket and grabs her gun. Sarah gasps. Rose rolls her eyes.

"John, it's not the take-away. It's the Tong." John blanches, then looks to Sarah. Rose takes the safety off her gun and grabs Sarah's arm.

"Come with me. Don't make a sound. The smugglers are here," Rose whispers urgently. "John, grab your gun." John nods, then goes into his room.

"All the flats of 221 are connected. You are going to Mrs. Hudson's. Lock the door and stay there. Do not come into here and do not say a word. You understand?"

Sarah nods frantically, eyes wide. The doorbell buzzes again.

"Coming, coming. Geez," Rose yells loudly. She quietly steps down the stairs, hugging the wall so that the stairs don't creak. Rose drags Sarah behind her. She opens the door to 221a and pushes Sarah in.

"If in half an hour, you don't hear anything from us, you call the police. Ask for Detective Inspector Dimmock. You got that? Sorry Mrs. Hudson," Rose apologizes to the elderly lady. She shuts the door softly. Rose hears the door bolt. _All right, Sarah. Not bad in a crisis, if you've got someone to give her direction._

Rose hears John on the landing.

"Stay up there. I'll open the door and talk with them. If things get rough, shoot. But maybe they don't want to kill us," Rose snorts. She puts her gun in her pocket. But she keeps her hand there, just to be safe.

She opens the front door with a flourish. _God. I'm opening the front door to smugglers._

"Do you have it?" a dark figure asks Rose. _Male. Three people stand behind him. Man in front of me stands awkwardly, as if it's uncomfortable to put weight on one foot. Another two men behind this one, one female._

"What?" Rose pretends to act confused. _Really, no acting involved here. What are they talking about?_

"Do you have the treasure?" _Oh, the thing that was stolen. Duh._

"Sorry, no treasure here. Goodnight," Rose attempts to close the door.

But Zhizhu has a different idea. He forces the door open, and Rose stumbles backwards. She pulls her gun out of her pocket and shoots rapidly, without hesitation. She hits Zhizhu's abdomen, and John fires a shot that hits him in the head.

Rose hears a whisper, and something hits her neck. Everything becomes fuzzy. Edges and shapes blur together, and someone leans down to talk to Rose.

"You're coming with us."

Then the world turns dark.

oOo

"John? John? I've got it! The cipher! The book! It's the London A-to-Z that they used…" Sherlock breaks off as he sees the graffiti on the windows.

The Hangzhou numerals fifteen and one. Deadman.

oOo

John wakes up from unconsciousness. His head hurts, and he can't feel his hands. He turns his head to see Rose sitting next to him, bound. Then he realizes that he must be tied up as well.

"You okay?" Rose whispers.

"Fine, you?"

"Great." Rose smirks, and John wonders how she can smile at a time like this.

"A book is like a magic garden, carried in your pocket," a voice says. The speaker moves closer to John, and continues. "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes."

_What?_ Rose thinks. _Oh. They think that he's Sherlock_.

"I'm-I'm not Sherlock Holmes," John breathes. His head aches so badly.

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it," the woman grins maliciously. She reaches into John's inner coat pocket and retrieves several items. "Debit card, name of 'S. Holmes'."

"Yes, that's not actually mine. He leant that to me," John protests, weakly.

"A check, for five-thousand pounds, made out in the name of 'Mister Sherlock Holmes'," the woman continues.

"He gave that to me to look after."

"Tickets, from the theatre, collected in the name of 'Holmes'," the woman says.

"This is ridiculous. He's not Sherlock Holmes!" Rose yells.

"Yes, I realize what this looks like, but I'm not him," John attests.

"We heard it from your own mouth," the evil woman affirms.

"What?" John and Rose ask at the same time.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one can compete with my massive intellect!" the woman stands there and leers at her two prisoners.

"Did you really say that?" Rose asks, disbelieving.

"Yes. I don't suppose I could persuade you that I was doing an impression?" John flinches away as he realizes the woman is holding a gun.

"He's not Sherlock bloody Holmes!" Rose shouts, panicked now. "I am Sherlock Holmes' daughter! Does that man there look anything like me?"

The woman pauses for a moment_. Please, please, let her believe it. Please._

"You are Holmes' daughter?"

"Yes," Rose breathes easier. "That man there is Sherlock's partner."

"I don't believe you." The Chinese lady turns back to John.

"I am Shan," the lady says.

"You're Shan?" John asks.

"Three times, we tried to kill you and your companion. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" Shan asks him. She cocks the gun and holds it to John's head.

"Ta1men bu2shi4 zhen1 de xiang3," Rose speaks rapidly in Mandarin. _They are not really trying. _"Ting2zhi3! Qing3 ting2zhi3!"

She pulls the trigger, and Rose hears a hiss of air. _A blank_.

"It tells you that they are not really trying," Shan says. She had ignored Rose's pleas.

John heaves for air, relief coursing through him like nicotine. Rose lets out the breath she had been holding. Then John sees Shan loading the gun with bullets.

"Not blanks, bullets now. If we had wanted to kill you, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive." Shan considers John. "Do you have it?"

"Have what?"

"The treasure."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I would prefer to make certain." Shan motions to her two henchmen. One of them takes the cover off the giant crossbow.

"Everything in the West has it's price. And the price for her life: information," Shan tells John coldly.

"Put me down! Let me go! Qing1wa1 cao1 de liu2mang2!" Rose bellows as the henchmen lift her up and place her in front of the crossbow. Rose sees one thug grip her chair tighter. She smiles, despite her predicament.

"Where's the hairpin?" Shan asks.

"What?" John asks. He's looking at Rose now, terror in his eyes.

"The Empress pin. Valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West. And then one of our people was greedy. He took it. Brought it back to London. And, you, Mr. Holmes have been searching."

"Please, please, listen to me," John pleads with Shan, "I don't have it. I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven't found whatever you're looking for."

"I need a volunteer from the audience," Shan cruelly says.

"No, please, please," John protests. Rose shakes from side to side and tips the chair over. The thugs right her and place her in front of the crossbow again.

"Ahh, thank you, little girl. You'll do nicely. Even if you are full of fire," Shan stabs the bag of sand, just like at the circus.

"Ting1zhi3! Wo3men mei2you3!" Rose pleads in Chinese again. When she sees that it's not working, she tries to tip her chair over again. She lands on Shan's toe.

Shan hisses in pain, and rights Rose. Then, she moves Rose closer to the crossbow.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes, little girl in a death defying act!"

"Please!" John shouts.

"Have you seen this act before?" Shan asks Rose.

"No, but I am a pretty good guesser. I already know how this is supposed to end," she replies.

"How dull for you, then." Shan places a paper black lotus on Rose's lap. Rose tips over on Shan's toes again, and Shan bellows in rage and pain.

The two thugs put Rose upright again, and Shan holds a gun to her head.

"Wei2kang4 zhi2dao4 nian2di3 ma?" Shan hisses.

"Yong3," Rose replies with equal venom.

The weight travels closer to the trigger point.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John roars.

"I don't believe you," Shan spits in his face.

"You should, you know." A voice comes from one end of the tunnel. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him. How would you describe me, John?" Sherlock asks. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" John suggests, but there is relief in his voice.

Rose giggles hysterically. "Gunna agree with John on this one."

"That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second," Sherlock tells Shan.

"Well?" Shan replies.

"Well, the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you," Sherlock informs her. Shan runs.

Sherlock tries to free Rose from her bonds, but a Chinese thug attacks him. The attacker wraps red cloth around Sherlock's neck and attempts to strangle him.

But the weight moves ever closer to the trigger point. Rose tips over and crawls, inch by inch, until she can kick the giant crossbow away. John had spotted Shan's gun, which she dropped, and took aim laying on the floor.

John shoots, and hits Sherlock's attacker in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Sherlock coughs, then works to free John and Rose from their bonds. Rose hears police sirens.

"Oh, Sarah must have called. Good girl," Rose says. "But how did they know to come here?"

Sherlock tells her that he left the decoded cipher right by a map of the tramways he had.

"Oh, well. Nice job." Rose sees Sherlock smile in the dim light.

oOo

"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in the report," Sherlock tells Inspector Dimmock.

"Mr. Holmes," Dimmock starts.

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector. A glittering career," Sherlock tells him.

"If I go where you point me?" Dimmock guesses.

Sherlock walks away. "Exactly."

oOo

The next day, the three of them go to the bank.

"Two operatives, based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something. A little hairpin." Sherlock monologues.

"Worth nine million pounds," John comments.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was in China," Sherlock continues.

"How did you know it was Van Coon?" Rose asks.

"Even the killer didn't know that," John adds.

"Because of the soap."

oOo

Rose goes with John to Sebastian for the check.

"He climbed up the balcony and through the window?" Sebastian is still skeptical.

"Lay a plank across the window and all your problems are over," John replies cheekily as he takes the check.

Sebastian eyes Rose distrustfully. She just smiles, a twinkle in her eye.

oOo

"Without you, without your assistance, we would never have gotten passage into London. You have my thanks," Shan whispers in a videoconference. The person on the other end merely typed his reply, instead of actually talking. The only clue to his identity was the letter 'M'.

M typed, **Gratitude is meaningless. It is only the expectation of further favours.**

"We did not anticipate. We did not know this man would come. This Sherlock Holmes. And now, your safety is compromised."

M's reply is, **They cannot trace this back to me.**

Shan is nervous now. "I will not reveal your identity," she promises.

**I am certain.**

A red dot appears on Shan's forehead, and a trigger is pulled.

oOo

The rest of the day is rainy and gloomy. Rose, John, and Sherlock wait outside Andy's house.

"Rose, are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to," John asks her.

"No, I want to. It's my fault."

"Oh, you idiot." Sherlock tells her.

Andy comes a few seconds later.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I was boiling a pot of tea for you," he says as he ushers the trio in.

Rose had called him earlier, asking him if she could come over. She said she had news of Soo Lin. He answered yes eagerly.

Andy's house was small, but cozy. A small sofa faces a tiny television. Andy drags a chair over from the kitchen and brings a tray of tea out.

"Tea?" Andy offers. He sits on the small sofa next to Rose, John takes the chair from the kitchen, and Sherlock stands.

Rose and John accept a mug, but Sherlock politely refuses. John and Andy make small talk as Rose contemplates how to phrase everything.

Rose takes sips of her tea. "Andy, how much did you know about Soo Lin, like her childhood and life in China?"

"Not that much. I asked her about it once, but she never gave me a straight answer," he replies.

"She was orphaned at age fifteen, her and her brother. They didn't have any options, two orphans. They started working for this group. It's called the Black Lotus Tong." Andy leans forward. Rose continues, "The Black Lotus Tong operates on the wrong side of the law. It's a crime syndicate."

Andy's eyes widen. "I'm sorry?"

"Soo Lin worked for them. She was a smuggler. She didn't have any choice. She could work for them, or she could starve on the streets," Rose says gently.

"I guess there's no real choice, then, huh? I understand. I guess. Not a great set of options," Andy laughs softly. "It's funny. I never would have guessed she was a criminal."

Rose gives him a tiny, tiny smile.

"She didn't want you to know. She thought that you would hate her, since she knows you love history so much. She used to smuggle ancient artifacts and drugs into Hong Kong."

"She thinks I would hate her? Oh, no! Not at all! I understand why she did those things," Andy says. "Go on."

"Well, she left. She didn't want that life. She came to England, and met you. She couldn't believe she got a job at a museum. She loved it," Rose says with a smile on her face.

"Yeah. That's so her. She hates it when people do the wrong thing. And she loves working at the museum. That's why I thought it was odd that she resigned. But please, continue," Andy prompts her.

"Her brother came to visit her on Sunday, the day before she disappeared. Her brother still worked for the Tong, and he asked her to help him find something. Soo Lin refused to help, and he left the cipher for her."

"What did her brother do, in the Tong?" Andy asks.

Rose pauses. _Yeah, her brother was an assassin. He eventually killed his sister!_ "He was an acrobat, with lots of extraneous skills."

"Like being a graffiti artist, yeah?" Andy jokes.

"Yeah." Rose laughs a little bit. "Anyways, Soo Lin resigned her job."

"The graffiti must have been threatening to her. I get it," Andy says. He puts his teacup down and leans back on the couch. "Is she okay?"

John steps in. "Soo Lin stayed somewhere. I don't know where, but she came to the museum every night to work on the teapots."

"Yeah. We found her one night. You gave me the key. Thanks for that, by the way," Rose says.

Andy waves it off. "No problem."

"Yeah. That night, um, she told us her background with the Tong and everything," Rose says.

"Hold on a tick. Why isn't Soo Lin here, telling me this herself? Where is she? And why do you refer to her in the past tense?" Andy stands up and stares at them.

Rose freezes. John doesn't say anything, and neither does Sherlock, for once.

"I'm not an idiot. Tell me where she is!" Andy roars.

"No. No, you're not," Rose whispers. _Oh, God. I can't even look at him._

"She's dead, isn't she?" Andy's voice breaks on the word 'dead'. He looks at all of them.

Nobody corrects him.

"Please, please tell me she's not dead. Tell me anything. Tell me she's somewhere else. Tell me she's alive and happy; somewhere far away and I just can't see her. Hell, tell me she's engaged and going to be happily married to some bloke. Just not that she's dead," Andy begs, his voice cracking. Tears fall from his big, puppy dog eyes.

"I am so, so sorry, Andy. I'm sorry," Rose whispers. She stands next to him, and he collapses into her. He sobs big, fat tears. He cries and cries. Sherlock moves to the kitchen, because domestics aren't his area. John silently takes the kettle to make some more tea.

**_Soo Lin. The ways her eyes would light up when she laughed and smiled. It was rare that she ever smiled. _**So Andy treasured it all the more when he saw it**_. The way she would laugh at his jokes, even thought they weren't the least bit funny. The way she never needed to talk, but she could just sit there and listen. Her passion for history. Her eyes. Her lips. Her hair. Her nose. _**He loved everything about her**_. And she's dead. I will never, ever see her again. _**And that made him sob harder than ever.

And Rose sheds tears with him. They didn't fall as fast, or as thickly, but they were there all the same.

Eventually, he stops and wipes his eyes.

"How did she-" he can't bring himself to say it. **_Not again._**

Rose looks at him. "Do you really want to hear it?"

Andy nods. If nothing else, he will hear this.

Rose sits down and motions for him to sit down as well. Rose takes a deep breath.

"We were in the museum, that night. Sherlock is a detective, and he needed to crack this code. Soo Lin could crack it for us. We waited for her, and she came. It was all for those stupid teapots," Rose says bitterly. "Her brother came. He was an assassin, as well as an acrobat. Sherlock went to go find him, and John went to go help."

"They should have stayed," Andy growls.

"I stayed. I had a gun. I sat in front of her, to protect her. Any bullets would have to go through me." Rose smiles sadly.

"She and I talked for a little while. We talked about you-" Andy clenches his jaw and closes his eyes. _He is in pain…So much pain…_

"Keep going," he commands, his voice raw.

"She liked you, she really did. As more than a friend." A single tear escapes Andy's eye. "I, uh, was going to set you two up on a date after that night. I promised her she would live." Rose's voice shakes. "She trusted me too much."

"What happened?" Andy clenches his fists. His eyes are still squinted shut.

"I turned around to look at her, because she said something ridiculous. And that's when he shot her."

"What. Did. She. Say."

"That she would like to see me again," Rose's voice is barely audible.

Andy stays silent. His jaw and fists are clenched, still. He opens his eyes, and the tears spill out. He can't hold them back. But he doesn't sob. Not yet.

"Andy, her last thoughts, her last words, were for you. She thought of you as she was dying. Nobody else," Rose says softly.

"Her last words?" Andy doesn't even try to fix his breaking voice this time.

Rose swallows. " 'Tell him I'm sorry,'" Rose says thickly.

And fresh tears start to fall from both pairs of eyes.

"It's my fault. I should have protected her better," Rose states. Andy doesn't look at her.

"It's not your fault. You did your best," he says numbly, without feeling.

_But I didn't! I didn't! I failed her! I failed her, just like I've failed everybody else in my life! I let her down. And she paid the price! It's not fair! She should have lived! Everyone should have lived! It's not fair! _Rose wants to scream. Her skull is pounding. She is furious at herself and at the world for stealing a life full of promise and hope.

"It's okay, really," Andy softens his tone of voice as he sees her face. He hugs her.

"I hope her brother regrets it," Andy whispers.

"He's dead," Rose breathes.

"Good."

John and Sherlock walk into the living room a few minutes later. Rose disentangles herself from Andy's hug.

"You ever need to chat, call me. I'll drop whatever I'm doing and come to you, okay?" Rose asks.

" 'Kay." Andy nods as they leave.

oOo

The trio goes back to the flat, and Rose immediately bounds upstairs and grabs the book that she bought with Sherlock's card. It's a blank journal, and as Rose grabs a pencil, she imagines what Soo Lin looked like.

She doesn't sleep or eat or drink anything until her drawing is done. It's a perfect sketch of Soo Lin Yao. Rose writes Soo Lin's name in calligraphy. A last tribute.

And then Rose collapses from exhaustion. Sherlock pulls a blanket over her, and watches thoughtfully. 

**Chinese Translations (I used Google translate for some of these, so if you speak Chinese, forgive me! And as for the numbers, Chinese is a tonal language. The numbers indicate what tone the previous syllable is. I'm a geek, I know.)**

**"Ta1men bu2shi4 zhen1 de xiang3."** They are not really trying.

**"Ting2zhi3! Qing3 ting2zhi3!"** Stop! Please stop!

**"Ting2zhi3! Wo3men mei2you3!"** Stop! We don't have it!

**"Wei2kang4 zhi2dao4 nian2di3 ma?"** Defiant until the end?

**"Yong3,"** Always.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sherlock

And then Rose collapses from exhaustion. Sherlock pulls a blanket over her, and watches thoughtfully.

Rose wakes up. She stretches, and looks at her phone to see the time.

"Five-seventeen in the morning. Hello, Rose," Sherlock greets her.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Rose asks him.

"A few hours."

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Approximately thirty-six hours."

"What?" Rose yelps. She covers her mouth suddenly.

"John's at surgery. He left a couple minutes ago," Sherlock tells her, guessing the reason for her panic.

Sherlock notices something. _How on earth did I miss that? I'm supposed to be a detective_. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

"You don't have a spare set of clothes." It's not a question.

"You didn't notice earlier?" Rose asks, a lopsided smile on her face. "I don't smell, do I?"

"No. We need to get you more apparel, though," Sherlock stands in thought. He starts to text Mycroft and makes his way into the kitchen.

**Mycroft. –SH**

**It is five-twenty-three in the morning. To what do I owe the extreme irritation? -MH**

**You have been awake for an hour already. –SH**

**Irrelevant. Dealing with you at any hour is irritating. What do I owe this annoyance to? –MH**

**Make sure my debit card has adequate funds. –SH**

**Why should I? –MH**

**Rose and I are going shopping. –SH**

**What chemical or component do you need that is so costly? And what is the nature of the experiment? Why is Rose important? –MH**

**We're going clothes shopping for Rose. –SH**

**And what do you plan on buying that is so expensive you need me to check your finances? –MH**

**Clothes. Anything else would be shocking. –SH**

**Sherlock, you do not know the first thing about teenage fashion. –MH**

**Good thing I'm not a teenager. –SH**

**Sherlock. –MH**

**Make sure it's done. –SH**

**Fine. –MH**

Sherlock smirks. _Mycroft has a soft spot for Rose. Hmm. Wonder when that will come in handy?_ He walks back into the living room.

Rose has disappeared.

"Rose!" _Phone is gone. So is her journal that she was drawing in. I didn't hear any door close, and the stairs didn't creak. So she's still in the flat. But where is she?_ He spots the open window. _Oh. She's outside._ He sticks his head out the window. _Not on the fire escape_. He climbs out the window and up onto the rooftop.

"Took you fifty-three seconds. Longer than I expected." He hears Rose's voice.

"What are you doing up here?"

"Got bored of the flat. I needed some air," is her reply. Sherlock spots her, lying down on the concrete roof. He sits next to her.

"So, what were you texting Mr. Holmes for?" Rose asks. She is on her back, looking up at the sky. All the stars have disappeared, in the hour before dawn. _What's she looking at?_

Sherlock snorts. "Call him Mycroft. And we're going shopping."

"Oh. Where?"

"Anywhere you like."

"Do we have to?" Rose complains.

"You don't want to?" Sherlock is surprised, but he doesn't show it.

"I'm just…uncomfortable with trying clothes on," Rose replies.

"Hm. I thought all women liked to go shopping," Sherlock says thoughtfully. He files that information away for later.

"Most women do."

They sit there, looking at the sky. Rose scribbles something down in her journal.

"Why are you writing in that?" Sherlock asks, a little condescendingly.

"Because I want to," Rose replies, a little sharper than she meant to.

Sherlock stares at her. He looks at her, really sees her for the first time. She was an enigma, a puzzle to solve. And he thought he had solved her. _But I haven't. Not really. I've only just scratched the surface. Strange. I know her whole history, and she still confuses me._

"You were right," he says softly.

Rose is shocked. "I'm never going to hear that again, aren't I?" she asks with a grin.

"Not likely."

"Tell me. How was I right?" Rose asks.

"You are a puzzle. And I don't know your solution. I can't tell much about you from a glance. I thought I'd solved you, but you continue to befuddle me."

Rose is bewildered. "How do I confuse you?"

"You! Just, everything about you! You are a walking contradiction. The way you can be so kind and caring, but the next moment you are more vicious than a mother protecting her child. The way you attempt to hide your emotions but other times you are so open and frank. You are guarded and jaded, but you are innocent and naïve at the same time. Why are you so puzzling?" Sherlock stares at her.

"You don't like that," Rose guesses.

Sherlock sniffs. "Hardly."

"Do you like hanging around people who are puzzling? Because John is more of a puzzle than I'll ever be," Rose informs him.

Sherlock considers it. "Maybe I do."

"Why he puts up with you is more than I'll ever know," Rose smiles. Sherlock starts thinking.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.

"What's your story, Sherlock?"

"Deduce me."

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asks.

"I can deduce it in a heartbeat, make no mistake, but I want you to tell me about you," Rose simply says.

"What makes my story any different if I tell you or if you can tell from a glance?"

"I don't know. More personal, I guess? I feel I get to know you better?" Rose suggests, a little embarrassed.

"Tell me, what can you deduce?" Sherlock is genuinely curious now.

Rose plays with her journal and pen for a moment. "I told a lot of it to you earlier. You like games and puzzles. You've never had a real friend before, because you think you're better than most people. Emotions are messy, not worth your time. Not a very nurturing childhood, I'd guess. You did drugs for a while, for kicks. To entertain yourself. But someone found you, Lestrade most likely. Mycroft took care of you after that. You are always bored because your mind races a billion miles an hour." Rose stops.

Sherlock doesn't correct any of her deductions. _Why bother? She's right_.

They sit there, in companionable silence. Nobody says anything. Nothing needs to be said.

The sunrise starts to come up. They watch it, and then go back into the flat because Sherlock complains it's too hot.

"Why did you draw Soo Lin?" Sherlock asks.

Rose stiffens. "To get it out of my system," she curtly replies. She sets the journal down and bounds toward the fridge. "You hungry, Sherlock?"

"No." Sherlock takes Rose's journal in his hands and opens it. _She's exceptional at drawing. It's very lifelike. If the average person didn't know better, they'd say it was a photograph._

The book is ripped out of his hands milliseconds later.

"Sherlock, don't open this. Don't read it, don't even breathe on it. Okay?" Rose asks.

"Why not?" _It's perfectly normal to have an artist's journal. Why wouldn't she want me to read it?_

"Because I don't want you to. Seriously, Sherlock. Are we clear? You don't look in this," Rose tries to get him to understand.

"Fine. It's boring anyways," Sherlock tells her sulkily.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Rose asks him as she walks into the kitchen again.

"Nothing."

"Sherlock! You need to eat something!" Rose's exasperated voice comes from the kitchen. "You're not thinking about anything, digestion won't slow anything down. Come on, you need to eat something."

"I am actually thinking about the shopping we're going to do today," Sherlock tells her haughtily.

"I swear, you're more excited about going shopping than I am," Rose laughs.

At the sound of her laugh, Sherlock starts to smile. He masks it as soon as she turns around, though.

"Sherlock, I'm going to make you ham and eggs. You are going to eat it."

"No."

"Fine, then. I won't eat either." Rose crosses her arms and locks eyes with Sherlock.

Sherlock sighs. "But you need to eat."

"So do you," Rose shoots back.

They stare at each other, a battle of wills. Neither one of them blinks. Neither one of them backs down.

Suddenly, the oddest sound comes from Sherlock's stomach._ What is that? I've never had a malady in my life. What could this be?_

Rose starts to laugh. "Sherlock, you say you're not hungry. But your body doesn't agree," she giggles.

Sherlock is mortified. _Stupid transport! Stupid, stupid transport! I shouldn't be subject to this, this…human-ness!_

Rose tries very hard to contain her laughter after her initial outburst. She clears her expression. "Ham and eggs, coming up!" she says brightly.

She makes breakfast. _It does smell very good,_ Sherlock grumbles to himself. When presented with his food, Sherlock takes a tiny bite, as if he's afraid it's poisoned. He doesn't eat fast. Even though it's delicious. _Not bad._

Rose devours her food. Within minutes, all the eggs and ham have vanished from her plate.

"So," she starts to say after she puts her plate down, "when are we going shopping? And what are we doing before that?"

Sherlock takes a tiny bite and chews for the longest time. _Might as well make this fun, since she's making me eat._

"We're going to the morgue. I need to perform a couple of experiments," Sherlock says after he swallows.

"Can I watch?" Rose asks, a little shyly.

Sherlock looks at her, confused. "I said 'we,' didn't I?"

"Oh, okay. When are we leaving?"

Sherlock checks his watch. _Only seven_. "We'll leave at ten," he says.

"Okay," Rose says. She writes in her journal. She notes all the things she's noticed about Sherlock. Little things, like the way he can't sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. Or how he drums his fingers when he's bored and steeples his fingers when he's thinking. She starts to draw him, even. Not an all out portrait, like Soo Lin's, but just his face.

She becomes so absorbed in her drawing that she doesn't hear Sherlock calling her name. Finally, he resorts to shouting.

"ROSE!" Sherlock bellows.

She's startled for an instant, then regains her composure.

"No need to shout, I can hear you perfectly fine," she says. She puts the journal into her backpack, slings her backpack over her shoulder, and walks out of the flat with him.

oOo

At St. Bart's, Molly Hooper is examining a corpse.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock greets her.

She jumps and spins around in fright.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" she asks, a slight tremble in her voice.

"Need to perform an experiment. You have any kidneys I can use?" Sherlock inquires.

Molly sighs. "Yes. Give me a minute."

Rose stands off to the side, trying to get a feel for this Molly Hooper. Naturally, she tries to remain silent and invisible during her first meeting with someone. But something is different about Molly Hooper. She narrows her eyes, trying to find out what it is.

"Can I help you?" Molly asks Rose.

"No, thank you," Rose says softly.

"What's your name?" Molly holds out her hand and smiles. "I'm Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Rose." Rose takes Molly's hand. She beams, dropping the shy persona. She decides that she wants to get to know this Molly Hooper.

"Right, Sherlock, here are your kidneys," Molly hands him a plastic bag, full of small, squishy organs. Rose watches Molly like a hawk.

"Excellent," Sherlock inspects the organs. He strides over to a few microscopes and starts examining them. He has positioned himself to have a perfect angle of both Rose and Molly interact.

"So, why are you here? I mean, nobody but dead people down here. And me," Molly adds with a tiny giggle.

"I'm with Sherlock."

"You helping him on one of his cases?" Molly asks, as if this was perfectly normal.

"Kind of. Sort of. I guess." Rose flounders for something. She changes the subject. "What are you doing?"

"I'm a pathologist. I inspect all the dead bodies and the cause of death. Sherlock comes to me when he needs things," Molly falters.

"Like kidneys?" Rose asks with a grin.

"Exactly." Molly says.

"Don't let me interrupt you. Please continue with what you're doing," Rose tells Molly. She watches wordlessly as Molly performs an autopsy, careful and methodical in her work. Rose observes as Molly becomes focused and absorbed in her work, fading from reality. She notices and catalogues everything interesting about Molly.

Rose looks around, knowing that Molly will probably think she's a creep pretty soon if Rose continues staring at her. Her interest fastens to an X-ray of a corpse. She looks around in the particular file, and sees that it's the man Moran killed in the house a few days ago.

"Sherlock? They never found the killer of that man, in the house, did they?"

"No. Why?"

"No reason." Rose checks the time. It's almost lunch. Rose entertains herself while the adults work. She opens her journal and starts writing, her eyes flickering to Molly every now and then.

oOo

Sometime later, Sherlock finishes his experiment. He looks up and sees Molly ending the autopsy. But he doesn't see Rose.

"Rose," he calls out.

She pops up from the table. Sherlock notices the journal and pen and the ink stains on her fingers. _Been writing, have we_?

"Time to go," he merely says.

" 'Kay," she says. She puts the journal and pen in her backpack.

"Where you going?" Molly asks, wistfully.

Sherlock considers telling her, and gets an idea. "Take the rest of the day off. We're going shopping."

Molly's jaw drops. "What?" is all she can manage.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again," Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"B-but why? And why should I go?" Molly asks.

"Rose needs clothes. I know the basics of teenage fashion, but not enough to pick out items for her. You know what is fashionable these days," Sherlock looks at her, as if this was basic.

"I have work," Molly stops under his gaze. But she doesn't back down.

"I can take care of that," Sherlock says.

"W-well," Molly trails off.

"If you don't want to, you don't have to," Rose says. She's standing close to the door, ready to go.

Molly stands there, unsure. Sherlock is looking at her with those eyes.

"No, I'll go," she hears herself saying.

Rose's whole face lights up when she smiles, Molly notices. Like Christmas has come early. She likes that smile.

Molly takes off her coat and follows the girl out. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and leaves after them.

oOo

"So, why is Sherlock buying clothes for you?" Molly asks.

"I live with him. I think he feels obligated," Rose says. "He knows he doesn't have to, but he is anyways."

"You live with him and John?" Molly asks, unfazed.

"Yeah." Rose looks at her. "That a problem?"

"Not at all. I just didn't know," Molly replies.

They are at a department store, browsing.

Rose thinks of something. "Sherlock, what's the budget?"

"Irrelevant."

Molly's eyes widen. " 'Irrelevant'?"

"Yes."

"Oh, boy, Molly." Rose cackles at the look on her Molly's face. She takes Molly by the hand and pulls her over to the designer section, laughing the whole while.

She pulls random long-sleeved shirts out of the racks. "Come on, Molly. What do you think?"

She takes the question seriously. "Mm, not yellow or the orange. You're going to have to try them on for me to see, though." Molly pulls out a cool blue shirt, as well as a dark red one. She selects several jeans, some black and some white. "Try these."

Rose takes the shirts and jeans and disappears into a fitting room.

Molly turns toward Sherlock, who is idly glancing around.

"Why does she live with you?"

"She is useful," Sherlock says off-handedly.

"Why are you buying clothes for her?"

"She needs them," Sherlock replies. _What is wrong? Should I __**not**__ buy clothes for her?_

"It's just not like you, that's all. To not say anything sharp or nasty, or even think of things like clothes," Molly finally says.

Rose comes out of the dressing room, wearing the dark red shirt and the white jeans.

"That looks nice!" Molly gushes.

Rose shakes her head. "No red," is all she says.

"What's wrong?" Molly asks.

"Nothing!" Rose looks shocked that anything would be wrong. "I just don't like red."

"Oh, okay. Put on the blue one, then."

Rose goes back into the fitting room and comes out momentarily.

"I think the blue looks better anyways," Molly decides. Rose smiles.

"I've picked out a couple of T-shirts and tank tops. It's a younger style, and summer's coming anyways. Try them on," Molly says, offering the shirts to Rose.

Rose's eyes widen. "No T-shirts, please. I'm more comfortable with the long-sleeves."

"Just try them! They're so cute, please try them," Molly pleads.

Rose shakes her head again. "No, thank you," she says politely.

"Why not?" Molly asks. Sherlock comes over. _She was so keen earlier. What's different?_

"I don't want to," Rose says, voice cold.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, his eyes boring into Rose's. But Rose doesn't back down.

"I don't want to try them on," Rose keeps saying.

"Okay, then. You don't have to," Molly says. She puts the shirts away and wordlessly grabs some shorts.

"Try these. They're a decent length, I thought," Molly hands Rose the apparel.

Rose takes them and puts them on in the fitting room. She comes out a few seconds later.

"What do you think?" she asks cheerily, dark mood gone.

"Looks good."

oOo

"Does she need anything else?" Sherlock asks Molly. Rose had finished trying on shirts and jeans, and she was putting on her normal clothes now.

"Well, she might need a few more, um, exclusively womanly articles," Molly says, a blush creeping up her neck.

"Yes. I had forgotten," Sherlock mutters absent-mindedly.

Molly lumps a few T-shirts and tank tops into the pile of clothes they would buy.

"She might want them, later," she says by way of explanation.

They make their way over to the lingerie department. Molly takes Rose over to a salesperson to help, and Sherlock is left standing awkwardly. A younger saleswoman starts to chat with him, batting her eyelashes and flaunting her cleavage.

Sherlock is polite as Sherlock can be, giving the girl monosyllabic answers to her questions. _Annoying. She is cheating on her boyfriend, who is a smoker. He's a gambler, too. A bit older than her as well. She doesn't have a stable family. Her parents divorced, three, four years ago? Mother drinks, father has temper problems. Dropped out of school. Not the smartest person._

Finally, he just snaps at her and lets her know his deductions. "Stop attempting to make your advances on me. You have a boyfriend, and I have no interest in being yours. Your mother drinks and your father has anger issues. You dropped out of school a year ago, mostly because you couldn't keep up with it. Low IQ, no prospects of a better life."

The girl's eyes fill with tears and she stars to sob. She runs away from him, and he sighs as silence fills the air around him. _Much better_.

When Molly and Rose come back, they go look for shoes.

"I like Converse," Rose says. She looks at a pair of dark blue trainers. She picks those and another pair of lighter blue ones.

They reach the checkout and find that the total sum is several hundred pounds.

Sherlock slides his card and pays for it.

oOo

Sherlock and Rose drop Molly off at her flat.

"Thanks, Molly. I had fun today," Rose says, looking down at her shoes.

"Me too," Molly says. She smiles. "Bye, Rose."

"Later, Molly," Rose says.

The cab pulls away from the pavement.

"Are you satisfied with your clothes?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah. Thanks, Sherlock."

The cab reaches 221b, and Rose carries her bags in. She puts the bags down collapses on the couch, which has become her bed.

Sherlock sits in his chair and steeples his fingers.

"Is John working a double shift today?" Rose asks, voice muffled because of the sofa.

"Yes."

"Okay."

Rose pulls out her journal and starts writing again. She writes about her day and the stuff she got, which was pretty cool, if she thought about it.

"How many scars do you have?" Sherlock asks, suddenly.

Rose tenses. "When did you figure it out?"

"The T-shirts. Why you didn't want to try them on for Molly to approve. How many do you have?"

Rose sighs. "I don't know. I never counted. Never wanted to."

"Can I see?" Sherlock asks.

"No, Sherlock."

"Please? Molly bought tank tops," Sherlock says. He stands suddenly and rummages through the bags and finds what he's looking for. "Put it on," he commands, throwing a tank top at her.

"Why would you want to see? They're just scars, old wounds that didn't heal completely."

Sherlock kneels by the couch, face to face with her. "Please, Rose? I just want to see."

She looks him in the eye, and sees his guard down. She sees something, something **human** in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. But I don't want you to see them. Not yet, at least."

Sherlock stands, and Rose wonders for a moment if she hurt him. He turns away, and sits in his chair. She climbs onto the roof again, needing to get away from the tense atmosphere.

Fury rages through him. _Who would __**dare**__ scar her? Who would _**_dare_**_ make her so ashamed? Who would _**_dare_**_ hurt her?_ He wants to find the person responsible. He's not sure what he would do if he found the criminal.

The strength of his fury scares him. He calms down, and locks his rage away. He is caring about her. _Caring is dangerous_. He shouldn't care, he knows. But for some reason, he does.

oOo

On the rooftop, Rose takes a deep breath. Why was he so curious about her scars? They were nothing pretty, she knew that much. She works on Sherlock's drawing, sketching. When she comes to his eyes, she pauses. She only sketches in pencil, so she couldn't capture the colour of his eyes. But even if she had coloured pencils, she's not sure she could draw them well enough to do them justice.

She eventually decides to draw them and get coloured pencils later. She's satisfied with her drawing, and stands up. It's late at night. She's not tired, though.

Rose decides to walk on her hands on the lip around the roof. She knows that if she looses her balance, she will fall, and probably die. That doesn't scare her, though. Death has been a constant companion, all her life. She isn't afraid.

She stands upon the lip of the roof and bends backwards. She kicks her legs upwards and holds them there, her balance equal to that of an Olympic gymnast. She starts walking. Rose looks down on the street below, bustling with life. Even though it was only eight at night, the streets were almost clear. She turns at the corner of the roof and keeps walking.

For the briefest of moments, her balance slips. Rose teeters, swaying sideways. She looks down, and becomes dizzy. He head spins, and, for what is eternity to her, she almost tilts too much to the side. Adrenaline rushes through her, slowing time down.

But she rights herself, and stands on her hands, ramrod straight again. She dismounts and stands on the roof, well away from the lip this time. She laughs at her near-death experience. She giggles until she falls down, and crawls back, laughing, to her journal. She makes a quick entry and smiles.

Because she's realized something.

Rose leaves the roof and goes back down to the flat. Sherlock is waiting for her.

"Rose…." Sherlock starts.

"It's okay. I'm just not ready for anyone to see them, yet. I think you were trying to help. I think you were trying to show you care. Maybe later I'll let you see the scars, but not right now," Rose interrupts him.

He gapes at her for a moment, then closes his mouth. _She understands. I don't even have to do anything. She just does. A little puzzle, for sure_.

She smiles. The door opens, and John walks in. He's weary and tired.

"Hey Sherlock, Rose." John trudges toward his bedroom, about to fall over from exhaustion. Rose stands next to him, able to catch him if he collapses.

"Busy day?" she asks.

"You have no idea," John replies with a yawn. "I'm going to bed."

He walks upstairs and goes in his room. Rose hesitates for a moment, then follows him.

She knocks on his door.

"Yeah?" comes John's tired voice.

"Um, I just wanted to say goodnight," Rose says.

"Oh, goodnight Rose."

She walks back downstairs and flops onto the couch. Rose grabs her journal and starts writing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**John**

**Author's note: Okay, a little confusing, I know, but the last chapters were set in, eh, mid-May-ish, in case you didn't know. I'm skipping ahead to mid-August, and John, Rose, and Sherlock are finishing up a case. So don't worry, you didn't miss anything. **

**Hope you enjoy the little nod to Mr. Freeman's and Mr. Cumberbatch's other escapades. If you're at all a fan of Sherlock BBC, then you'll find it.**

She walks back downstairs and flops onto the couch. Rose grabs her journal and starts writing.

Sherlock, John, and Rose are finishing up a case. It had to do with a fraudulent psychic, a teacup, a mirror, and three murders.

_Really, quite exciting_, John thinks. They have just narrowly escaped death again. _Sherlock and Rose are grinning like the idiots they are,_ John thinks fondly_._

Sherlock walks over to John. Rose is chatting with Lestrade. _They've become unlikely friends_, John thinks. _No, not unlikely. Rose has more people skills than Sherlock, but she's just as brilliant. Easier to work with, I guess_.

Rose waves good-bye to Lestrade and brushes past the fake psychic. The woman grabs Rose suddenly by the arm and talks to her. Her eyes unfocus and she looks away.

"It will start soon," the woman intones in a hoarse voice. "The game, the great game will start soon. The detective and the doctor against the criminal. Lives hang in the balance of this deadly waltz. It's all so clear."

But the woman turns to Rose with a gleam in her eye, lip curled. "But you, my dear, are a grey area. You're a loose cannon, a variable. You destroy everything you touch."

Rose rips her hand out of the grip of the psychic. She glares at the woman. The woman just laughs, enjoying the way she has unsettled Rose.

Rose joins John and Sherlock.

"You ready to go?" John asks.

"Yeah." Rose says.

They hail a cab and go back to the flat. The psychic's words ring in Rose's head.

But she's too tired to care. She's been awake for ninety-six hours straight, chasing murderers and that fake psychic. She falls asleep as soon as her head hits the couch.

When he's sure that Rose is asleep, John starts talking to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, tomorrow's her birthday. What do you want to do?"

"Why would I want to do anything for her birthday? And shouldn't you ask her?"

"Sherlock! I just figured, you know, she's never had a real birthday before. Maybe we could get her something?" John asks hesitantly.

"How do you even know it's her birthday?"

"I asked Mycroft. And what do you think she would like?" John asks.

Sherlock sighs. "I don't see the need to get her anything. It's not a particularly special day."

John just raises his eyebrows. "Not special? If she hadn't been born, we'd never have met her. Aren't you glad you met her?"

Sherlock dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand.

John sighs. "Fine, then. You don't have to do anything or get her anything, but I'm going to get her a couple of presents. And I'm going to surprise her with a cake. It's still early, so I'll get her presents now."

He leaves._ Sodding Sherlock Holmes! How inconsiderate can you get? Just ridiculous._

oOo

John returns an hour and a half later, with gift-wrapped presents and a small cake. He hides them and goes to bed with a smile on his face. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

oOo

Early in the morning, Sherlock tells John that he's going to investigate a possible case. Something Russian. He leaves without waking Rose.

Rose wakes up at seven. She's never been one for sleeping in late, although heaven knows she deserves it after staying awake for five straight days. She groans as she remembers what day it is. Her least favorite day of the year.

She smells coffee and bacon. She rolls over and stands up, stretching.

"Morning, John." She's determined to act normal, even though this day is anything but.

"Hey, Rose. Happy birthday!" John says.

"How did you know?" Rose asks.

"I asked Mycroft. I have presents for you," John says, halting the cooking of bacon and leading Rose over to where he'd hidden them. He pulls out one lumpy-shaped package and a few squarish packages.

"Open 'em," John encourages her.

Rose smiles and opens the lumpy-shaped package first. It's a collection of coloured pencils and pens. Her eyes widen.

"For you to draw with," John explains. "You draw so much, I'd figure a little colour wouldn't hurt."

Rose just beams at him, her joy unable to put into words. She'd never received such a thoughtful present. Her attention turns to the square gifts.

There are five of them, all individually wrapped. She opens the smallest one first.

It's a book by J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Hobbit_.

The next one is _The Fellowship of the Ring_, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

The third is by Rick Riordan, _Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief_.

The fourth is _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's stone_, by J.K. Rowling.

The last is _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_, by C.S. Lewis.

"They're all good books. My favorite is _The Hobbit_. Used to read it all the time when I was a kid. Rick Riordan is an American author. Not sure how good his books are, but I've heard they're wonderful. The others are classics." John looks at Rose hesitantly. _Does she like them? I hope so._

Rose takes in the books and the colouring instruments, and grins. "Thank you. I really like them. I'll read The Hobbit first, since it's your favorite. Thank you so much." She gives John a huge hug from excitement.

"Do you want to go anywhere today? We can go anywhere you like," John offers.

"No. I just want to stay home today. If a case turns up, I'll take it. But I'm fine with just staying home," Rose says, holding _The Hobbit_.

"Okay. Peckish?" John asks.

"Sure."

John gives Rose half a pound of bacon, and he makes her eggs as well, just the way she likes them. She eats, savoring the taste. Then, she cracks open _The Hobbit_, plunging into the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf the Grey, and Thorin Oakenshield to defeat Smaug, the dragon hoarding treasure beyond imagining.

John looks on as Rose is completely engrossed in _The Hobbit_, his favorite book. He texts Sherlock.

**Where are you? –JW**

**Out. –SH**

**It's Rose's birthday. Can you at least come and wish her a happy birthday? –JW**

**Later. –SH**

**Sherlock, it doesn't take you four hours to investigate a possible case! What are you doing that is so important that you can't even text her Happy Birthday? –JW**

**I am bored. –SH**

John frowns.** You're not taking drugs, are you? –JW**

**No. –SH**

**Then what are you bloody doing?! –JW**

Sherlock doesn't answer, although he does come back to the flat. John finds him washing his hands. John had just been in the bathroom.

"Happy birthday," Sherlock says hollowly.

"Thanks Sherlock," says Rose, not really paying attention to him. She's more focused on her book.

Sherlock goes in his room and sulks.

The trio stays home all day. There had been a real lack of cases, except for the one last night.

Rose finishes _The Hobbit_ a few hours after lunch, around two She wordlessly picks up her coloured pencils and starts drawing. She sketches John first. She loves the new pencils he had gotten her.

A couple hours later, there's a knock at the door. John goes and answers it.

"Molly! Good to see you. Just off of work, then?" John hugs her.

"Yeah. Is Rose here? I've gotten a present for her," Molly says.

"Yeah, yeah. Right upstairs."

John leads her upstairs and opens the door to the flat.

"Hi Rose! Happy birthday!" Molly says with a huge grin on her face.

Rose's face lights up as soon as she sees Molly. "Hello!"

Molly hands Rose her present. Rose wrinkles her nose. "You didn't have to."

"I know. But I did. Open it," Molly begs.

Rose tears off the tissue paper and gasps. There are tons of movies, like the Lord of the Rings trilogy, most of the Harry Potter movies, and some others Rose couldn't identify.

"They're all yours. But I was thinking that maybe you could come over to my place and watch the movies with me," Molly says. "Just us, no boys." Molly flashes John a grin.

Rose smiles. "That sounds wonderful. When's your birthday? I need to start planning."

"October thirty-first."

Rose grins even bigger, if that were possible. "On Halloween?"

"Yeah."

"Neat. You want something to eat?" Rose heads toward the fridge.

"Actually, I have to get home. Lots of paperwork to do," Molly says apologetically, her grin replaced with a melancholy grimace.

"Not a problem," Rose stops and walks back to Molly. "We'll walk you out."

The three friends walk downstairs, chatting merrily. Sherlock, who hasn't come out of his room since he came home, sits down in his chair, John's gun in his hand. He stares blankly at the ceiling, then raises his left hand and fires the gun.

BANG! BANG!

John and Rose hear the gun the very instant Molly shuts the door of her cab. John runs upstairs, followed closely behind by Rose. They hear four more shots.

Rose expects to see a bloody mess on the floor, and she's relieved when she sees no such thing. _There was no one in the house with us, right? Sherlock, me, Rose, and Molly,_ John thinks.

John covers his ears as he steps into the flat.

"What the **hell** do you think you're doing?" John asks, yelling.

"Bored," comes the reply.

"What?" Rose asks. Her ears are ringing from the shots.

"Bored!" Sherlock suddenly stands up. He switches the gun to his right hand, his dominant hand, and fires the gun again.

"No!" John says before he covers his ears.

"Bored!" Sherlock shouts. He pulls the trigger. "Bored!"

Rose stands calmly. She puts her hand out for the gun, which Sherlock gives her. She quickly takes the remaining ammunition out of the gun and hands it to John, because it's his gun. She sits in Sherlock's chair and picks up her journal and the pencils. She continues to draw John.

"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes these days. Good job I'm not one of them," Sherlock says as he inspects the damage he's caused the wall.

"So you take it out on the wall?" John asks, sarcastically.

"Oh, the wall had it coming," Sherlock says. He flops dramatically down onto the sofa.

"How about that Russian case?" John asks as he walks toward the kitchen.

"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Oh, shame," John says dryly. "We got anything in? I'm starving." John opens the refrigerator, fully expecting some type of food, but shock awaits him.

"Oh," John opens and closes the refrigerator door fast as lightning. He regains his composure, then opens the door again. "It's a head. There's a severed head in the fridge!" He says the last part in a louder voice, to call Sherlock's attention to it.

"Just tea for me, thanks," is Sherlock's reply.

"There's a head in the fridge!"

"Yes."

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don't mind, do you? I got it from the Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagualtion of saliva after death. See you've written up the taxi driver case."

Rose perks up. "What taxi driver case?"

"Before we met you," John explains. "Um, yes," he answers Sherlock.

" 'A Study in Pink.' Nice," Sherlock comments.

"Well, you know. A pink lady, a pink case, pink phone. There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?" John asks.

"Ummm, no!" is Sherlock's reply.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered? 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how **spectacularly ignorant** he is about some things.'"

John protests, "Now, hang on a minute, I didn't mean that-"

Sherlock is sarcastic. "Oh, so you meant '**spectacularly ignorant**' in a nice way? Look it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or who's sleeping with whom-"

"Or that the Earth goes around the sun," John mutters.

"Oh, not that again! It's not important!"

Rose is thoroughly enjoying this little row. It enables her to see Sherlock in a different light and how he does things differently.

"Not important? It's primary school stuff! **How** can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

" 'Deleted it?'" John asks, confused.

"Listen!" Sherlock points to his cranium. "This is my hard-drive, and it only makes sense to put things in here that are useful. **Really** useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matter! Do you see?"

Rose thinks that Sherlock has a point.

John just stares at the detective. "But it's the solar system!"

Sherlock is really irritated now. He buries his head in his hands. "Oh, hell! What does that matter? So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots. Put **that** in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!" Sherlock curls into the fetal position and faces the wall.

_Oh. My. God. How can he be such an infuriating git? He's not normal. But then, what's normal for Sherlock? God, he is so brilliant. And eccentric. _

John glares at Sherlock for a moment and stands up. He walks toward the door of the flat. Sherlock raises his head and looks at John.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air," comes John's reply. He bumps into Mrs. Hudson on his way out.'

"Oh, sorry, love," Mrs. Hudson says as she walks up. She's got the shopping.

Rose stands up puts away the shopping for Mrs. Hudson.

"You two had a little domestic?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Yes, yes they have," Rose says, cheekily.

Sherlock stands up, steps on top of the coffee table, steps down, and stomps toward the window. He stares at John, who is walking out of the flat.

"Look at that. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" Sherlock asks the two ladies.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock. There'll be something exciting in the next day or two, I'm sure of it," Rose assures him.

"Yes. A nice murder. That will cheer you up," Mrs. Hudson says. Rose smiles, because that sentence would only describe Sherlock Holmes. And one other person.

"Can't come too soon," Sherlock whispers.

"Hey!" Mrs. Hudson finally notices something out of the ordinary. "What have you done to my bloody wall?"

Sherlock smiles.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson says. She turns to walk away, then remembers something. "Rose, your gift is in the mail. Happy birthday, dear."

"Mrs. Hudson! Oh, please don't. I don't think I could bear any more presents. I'm quite content with all that I've got." Rose moans. Mrs. Hudson just smiles and walks downstairs.

Sherlock smiles, to match yellow smiley face on the wall. He sits on the couch again.

Rose just shakes her head. "Out of all the days to have a row with John, Sherlock, it had to be today?"

"Oh, shut up. You're not special," Sherlock snaps at her.

Rose's eyes widen, then the mask of stone settles over her face. Sherlock doesn't see. "No, I suppose not," she says, her voice emotionless.

She sits in Sherlock's chair, and continues drawing John again. She wants this drawing to be perfect, that no one who saw it could fail to recognize John. Her phone vibrates. She puts the pencils down and checks the text she's received. Her blood runs cold with rage and hate as she reads it. The number is blocked.

**Happy birthday, Rose! I've gotten you a little present. You'll like it, I promise. –Moriarty**

Her reply, **I don't know who you are. You have the wrong number, I'm sorry**.

**Oh, please, birthday girl. You're sixteen today, playing pretend is a bit childish for you. Oh, and don't tell sexy over there who I am. He needs to figure it out for himself. –Moriarty**

**I wouldn't know childish, would I? I never had a childhood. –RS**

**Quit whining. You're too old for that. Besides, I've got a birthday present for you. –Moriarty**

**I want nothing from you. Except maybe your death. –RS**

**Ohh, violent today, are we? I'm surprised. I thought we were done with the killing. But I guess not. That's always who you've been. A killer. –Moriarty**

**No, it's not. –RS**

**Stop with the philosophical discussions, you're boring me. Anyways, I mentioned a present, didn't I? –Moriarty**

**I don't want your stupid present! –RS**

**Too bad! I can't take it back. Stay away from any windows. –Moriarty**

"Sherlock?" Rose calls him. She stands and starts to walk over to him, but stops. Because he hasn't stopped texting her.

**3**

**2**

**1**

A split second after Rose receives the last text, an explosion rocks the building. The glass in the windows shatter, and Rose was standing right in front of one. She is showered with broken glass and debris. A larger piece of glass is embedded in her arm, and she shrieks in pain. She is covered with tinier scratches and scrapes.

"Rose!" Sherlock runs over to her, despite the broken glass on the floor and his bare feet.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," Rose grunts. She pulls out the piece of glass, wincing every second or so. Sherlock just stares at her.

Rose finally extracts the large piece of glass from her arm. It looks wicked, sharp edges everywhere. Rose places the glass shard gently down, and walks cautiously into the kitchen for a first aid kit. She knows John keeps one handy somewhere.

She finally finds it, but has trouble initially because it hurts to move her left arm at all. She feels cold hands on hers.

Sherlock takes the disinfectant and rubs it over the wound in her arm. Rose doesn't flinch, even though it stings a lot. Then, he rubs disinfectant on her other cuts and scrapes. Then, he methodically puts on antibacterial cream on the various scrapes. He finally bandages the large gash in her arm.

His touch is gentle, but methodical. He doesn't say a word as Rose flexes her arm and moves it around. It still hurts, but not as much.

"Thanks," Rose says. She grabs a dustpan and a broom and heads for the living room. She sweeps up the debris. After she's done, she checks her phone, which she dropped in the shock of the explosion. There were no more texts.

Just as she pockets her phone, it buzzes one more time.

**Be prepared.**

**Author's Note: Yes, those are some of my favorite books. If you have any suggestions for future books for Rose, review or PM me. She's got to have Christmas presents, right? Please review, I love to hear your thoughts and questions. It makes my day. **


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Rose**

Just as she pockets her phone, it buzzes one more time.

**Be prepared.**

Rose stuffs the phone in her pocket.

"Sleep in my room tonight. You're tired, and I'm not," Sherlock says. "You're not sleeping out here."

"Fine. I am pretty tired," Rose yawns. She picks up her journal and heads to Sherlock's room.

_Pretty spare_, she thinks. There's a bed, unmade. Wardrobe and dresser, and a mirror. Nothing else. The floor is carpet, and there are a few pictures on the dresser. There's one of two young boys, one is strawberry-blonde and the other is raven-haired. _Sherlock and Mycroft._ The other photo is of Sherlock's family, and there's one photo not in a frame. It's just lying on the dresser.

It's of Rose, Mrs. Hudson, John, and Lestrade. Rose remembers when that picture was taken. _It was John's birthday party, July seventh. Molly took that picture_, Rose remembers. They didn't know she was taking the picture. They were all laughing at a joke Lestrade had made. _Completely candid shot_. She puts the picture down, feeling as if she has seen something she's not supposed to.

Rose collapses on Sherlock's bed. She's still tired from the night before. _And with this new gift from him, I think I'll need to be well rested for the coming days._

But her pocket vibrates before she can close her eyes and drift into oblivion.

**You can help him. –Moriarty**

**What makes you think I would do anything different? –RS**

**Haha. You can help him in this little game I'm playing, but you can't tell him I'm behind it. –Moriarty**

**Why shouldn't I? –RS**

**Because then I'll detonate a bomb that I've placed. It's somewhere in the city. –Moriarty**

Rose doesn't reply for a few minutes. **How? –RS**

**Well, if you knew, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it? –Moriarty**

**Why can't you just leave me alone? I want nothing to do with you! –RS**

****

Because you're very fun to toy with, Rose. Very, very fun. –Moriarty

Rose doesn't reply. She stares at the ceiling of Sherlock's room. After a long while, she falls into a restless sleep.

oOo

Rose wakes up hours later. It's morning. She wonders where she is for a moment, then she remembers it all. She's in Sherlock's room. _He had insisted I sleep here, and not on the couch_.

She stumbles blearily out into the living room.

"Morning," she says. Sherlock doesn't reply. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"Bored."

"Bored? Sherlock…" Rose trails off.

"The explosion was a gas leak," Sherlock says.

_Not_. "Oh," is all she says.

They hear the door downstairs open. Both Rose and Sherlock stiffen. Rose stands and retrieves it from her hiding spot, in between the couch cushions. She checks the ammunition in it. _It's full. Sherlock didn't get to it._ Relieved, she takes the safety off.

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock says, in the same tone of voice as if he had noticed dog vomit. He grabs his violin from the case.

Sure enough, the man with the umbrella struts through the door of the flat as if he owns the place. Rose quickly stuffs the gun in her jacket pocket.

"Sherlock. Rose," Mycroft Holmes says in greeting. He takes John's chair opposite Sherlock. Rose remains standing. She leans against the desk, arms crossed.

"Hello, Mycroft," Rose says cheerfully.

"Sherlock, I have a something that may interest you," says Mycroft.

Just then, John bursts into the flat.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" he stops when he sees Sherlock.

"I saw it on the telly. You okay?"

"Hm? What? Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." Sherlock turns to Mycroft.

"I can't."

"Can't?"

"Stuff I've got, it's just too big. I can't spare the time."

Rose doesn't ask. _Oh. Sibling spite. He would rather be bored then help his brother. Childish, much? But Sherlock isn't going to pass up a case that Mycroft brings to him. No, I don't think so. Not even to spite his big brother._

John just stands there, inspecting the damage.

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

Sherlock plucks the strings of his violin. "How's the diet?"

_Oh, now we've resorted to sniping. About a diet, no less. _

"Fine." Mycroft looks at John. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

"What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock asks.

"No, no, no, no, no. I can't be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections-" he stops. John and Sherlock look interested. Rose doesn't. _Its just politics. Boring stuff._

"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" Mycroft asks with an enigmatic smile. "Besides, a case like this, it requires-" Mycroft pulls a face that Rose thinks is hilarious, "-legwork."

Sherlock changes the subject. "How's Sarah, John? How's the lie-low?"

Mycroft and Rose speak at the same time. "Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

Rose raises an eyebrow, and Mycroft does the same.

Sherlock looks John over again. "Oh, yes, of course."

John's about to ask, but he knows better. "How…Oh never mind."

He sits on the sofa.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became…pals," says Mycroft. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"

"Oh, I'm never bored," is John's reply.

"Never bored at all," Rose agrees.

"Good. That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft asks, rhetorically.

Mycroft stand up and tries to hand something to Sherlock. When the latter makes no move to take the file, Mycroft turns to John and Rose.

"Andrew West. Known as 'Westy' to his friends. Civil servant. Found at the tracks of Battersea station this morning, with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John asks.

"Seems the logical assumption."

"But?" Rose inspects her fingernails._ So much more interesting than listening to Mycroft. Oh, no. I'm turning into Sherlock!_

"But?" Mycroft looks at Rose.

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," John says. Sherlock snickers.

Mycroft says, "The MoD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce-Partington program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John lets out a small laugh. "That wasn't very clever."

Sherlock and Rose smirk. _Sassing the British government, are we? Good work, John. Good work._

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft assures John. "But it is secret. And missing."

"Top secret?" John makes sure.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You got to find those plans, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge the man.

"Don't make me order you," Mycroft threatens.

He puts his violin underneath his chin. "I'd like to see you try," Sherlock says.

"Think it over." Mycroft holds Sherlock's stare for a moment. "Goodbye John. Goodbye, Rose," Mycroft says, shaking their hands. "See you very soon."

Sherlock starts playing the violin as Mycroft picks up his umbrella and coat, finishing as Mycroft leaves.

"Why'd you lie?" When John receives no answer, he goes on. "You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding! Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock asks as he scratches his head with the bow of his violin.

"Oh. Nice." John shakes his head. "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

The flat is silent for a few moments. Then, Sherlock's mobile rings.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says. Rose strains to listen to the conversation. The only words she can pick out are 'case,' and 'immediately.'

"Of course. How could I refuse?" Sherlock asks. He hangs up and grabs his jacket. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming, you two?"

Rose speaks first. "Sure, if that's okay."

"If you want me to," John says right after.

" 'Course." Sherlock pauses in the doorway. "I'd be lost without my blogger. And my forensics expert."

Rose smiles. _Much better than what he could have called me._

They hail a cab, and head to New Scotland Yard.

oOo

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The, surprising ones?" DI Lestrade asks.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies.

"You'll love this."

Lestrade leads them to his office. They pass Sally Donovan on the way. She glares at Sherlock, but then she spots Rose. Donovan puts her head down in an attempt to not be noticed. Rose smirks.

"That explosion..." Lestrade starts.

"Gas leak. Yes?" Sherlock asks.

"No," Lestrade says.

"No?" Sherlock echoes.

"No. Made to look like one."

"What?" John asks. They finally reach Lestrade's office, and on his desk there is a white envelope.

"Nothing left of the place," Lestrade says. "Except a strongbox. A very strong box, and inside of it was this."

Sherlock notices, "You haven't opened it."

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade says. As Sherlock moves to touch the envelope, Lestrade adds, "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock says. He picks up the envelope and tells Rose to put on gloves. After having done so, Sherlock gives her the envelope to inspect. "Tell me about it."

Rose takes the envelope in her hands. Rose holds it up to the light of a lamp. She checks the writing first. _Bohemian stationary, from the Czech Republic. The woman used a fountain pen. Iridium nib._ Then, she feels the object inside. _Hard, but wrapped in something that give s little. Silicon, maybe? _Rose feels for the dimensions of the object_. About 115 millimeters in length, 62 millimeters in width, and 12 millimeters in depth. Something you could hold in your hand. A phone? An iPhone 3GS. No explosives contained inside. Lestrade's scan would have picked it up._

Rose tells Sherlock all of the deductions she has thus far. Sherlock nods and takes the envelope. He uses a letter opener to open the envelope, and inside, he finds exactly what Rose had described.

"That…that's the phone! The pink phone," John says.

"What? From 'A Study in Pink?'" Lestreade asks. Donovan comes in.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like it…" Sherlock trails off as Lestrade's words hit him. " 'A Study in Pink'? You read his blog?" Sherlock asks.

" 'Course I read his blog. We all do," Lestrade says. "Do you really not know the Earth goes 'round the sun?"

Donovan is going to laugh, but then she sees Rose glaring at her. Instead, she just smirks and walks out.

"It isn't the same phone, Lestrade. But it's made to look like it," Rose says. All three of them turn back to the phone. "It's brand new. Of course it couldn't be the same phone."

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means," Sherlock says, looking hard at John, "your blog has a far wider readership."

_No kidding. I didn't know he reads John's blog._ Rose shakes her head and refocuses on the object at hand.

John has the decency to look away in shame for a moment. Sherlock taps the phone.

"You have one new message," a robotic voice tells them. They hear five pips, the fifth being the longest.

"Is that it?" John asks.

"No," Rose answers. _He wouldn't just leave it at five pips_.

There's a photograph on the screen. It's of a fireplace. The wallpaper is old, dirty, and peeling. There's what looks like a mirror in the corner. The floor is absolutely filthy. Lestrade comes and looks at the photo over Sherlock's shoulder.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips?" Lestrade asks, incredulous.

"It's a warning," Sherlock says, thinking.

"A warning?" John asks,

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, stuff like that. Five pips. They're warning us that it's going to happen again," Rose explains, still looking at the photo.

"I've see this place before," Sherlock breathes.

"What's going to happen again?" John asks.

"Boom!" Sherlock says. They pass by Donovan again on the way out, but none of them spare her a glance.

oOo

They arrive at 221c Baker Street.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

She arrives a few seconds later, bearing keys.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock? When you first came to see about your flat?" Mrs. Hudson asks as Sherlock unlocks the door.

"Door's been opened, recently," Sherlock says, not looking at her.

"No, can't be. That's the only key," Mrs. Hudson says. "I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the dampness. That's the curse of basements. I had a place once, when I was first married." Nobody is really paying attention to her rattling. Sherlock, John, Rose, and Lestrade all file downstairs. "Black mold all over the walls-"

The door shuts in her face.

oOo

Sherlock opens the door to 221c carefully. He steps in, and John, Lestrade, and Rose follow. The flat is exactly like it looked in the picture. Only one thing is out of the ordinary.

"Shoes," John says, looking at the pair in question.

They're on the floor, neatly placed. Like they needed to be found.

As Sherlock makes a move toward the shoes, John says cautiously, "He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock hesitates for a second. And Rose examines them instead. She approaches the shoes carefully. Tension crackles in the air. She gets on her knees and looks down into the shoes.

Rose puts her hand out to touch them when a phone rings. John and Lestrade start. Sherlock pulls out the pink phone. The number is blocked. He puts it on speaker.

There is silence on the other end.

"Hello?" Sherlock says.

There is heavy breathing on the other end. Eventually, words form. "H-h-hello, sexy," a woman's voice says. _She's crying_, Rose realizes.

"Who is this?" Sherlock asks.

"I've sent you a little puzzle," the woman sobs. "Just to say hi. And it's a birthday present for a special someone."

Rose's blood runs cold. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade look at her.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock asks, still looking at Rose.

"I'm not crying. I'm typing. And this s-stupid ***** is reading it out," the woman cries.

"The curtain rises," Sherlock whispers, finally turning back to the phone.

"What?" John asks.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John asks, firmly.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock answers.

The crying woman starts talking again. "Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or I'm going to be so naughty."

The call ends.

oOo

John and Sherlock go to St. Barts's to run some tests on the shoes. Rose says she's going to go think.

"Well, you can think while we're at Bart's," Sherlock says.

"No. I need some solitude right now, Sherlock. Thanks, anyways," Rose says. "I might go back to the flat and get some things, but I'll be back."

oOo

Sherlock and John examine the shoes, with the help of Molly. Sherlock takes some mud samples from the bottom of the shoes and inspects them.

"So, who do you suppose it was?"

"Hm?"

"The woman on the phone, the crying woman?" John asks.

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there."

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads," John says.

"We're not going to be much use to her."

"And-and are you trying to trace it? Trace the call?" John asks.

"Bomber's too smart for that. Pass me my phone," Sherlock commands.

John looks around. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

John stands there for a moment, flabbergasted at his flat mate's laziness. He walks over and retrieves Sherlock's phone for him.

"Careful!" Sherlock snaps as John moves him too much.

"Text, from your brother."

"Delete it."

" 'Delete it'?" John asks.

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it," Sherlock says shortly. He's trying to concentrate on his experiment.

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important," John remarks.

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" Sherlock asks, irritated now.

"His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story." Sherlock focuses back on the microscope. "The only mystery is this: Why is my brother determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting?"

"Try to remember there's a woman who might die," John says, shocked that his flat mate would be so uncaring.

"What for?" Sherlock looks at John. "Hospitals are full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside, see what good it does them."

John shifts his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with the truth of that statement. Sherlock's computer starts beeping.

"Ha!" Sherlock cries in triumph.

Molly enters the lab. "Any luck?" she asks, walking over to where Sherlock and John are standing.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock says excitedly.

A man enters the lab behind Molly.

"Oh, sorry, I…" the man starts to apologize.

"Jim! Hi," Molly says. "Come in, come in."

The man named Jim walks in. Sherlock's eyes flicker between Molly and Jim. He turns back to his work.

Molly introduces them. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," is all Jim says.

"And this is John Watson," Molly says.

"Hi," John greets Jim.

"Hey." Jim's attention goes back to Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly says. She looks around. "Where's Rose?"

John replies, "She's not here. She's back at the flat, probably. Listening to her insanely loud music, most likely."

Sherlock glances at Jim, then says, "Gay."

Molly's happy expression fades. "Sorry, what?" she asks.

Sherlock covers. "Nothing. Um, hey."

"Hey," Jim says. He accidentally knocks over some equipment. "Sorry, sorry."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John shakes his head in exasperation.

"Well, I'd better be off," Jim says. He joins Molly. "Bye. It was nice to meet you."

When Sherlock makes no reply, John steps in for him. "You, too."

Jim looks at him, a little confused, then he smiles and walks out. After he leaves, Molly asks, "What d'you man, gay? We're together."

Sherlock turns to her. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on what, three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half."

"No, three."

"He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil…He's not!" Molly protests, furious that Sherlock has possibly ruined a relationship of hers.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock asks condescendingly.

John says, "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!"

Sherlock merely says, "You wash your hair, there's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of touring cream around the frown lines, his eyelashes. Then there's his underwear."

Molly is confused. "His underwear?"

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he's just left his number under his dish here. And I'd say that you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly looks at him, incensed. Then she runs out of the room.

"Charming. Well done," John comments.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" Sherlock asks, puzzled.

" 'Kinder'? No, no, Sherlock. **That** wasn't kind."

oOo

While all that was happening down at Bart's, Rose had struck out on her own. She had gone back to the flat for the majority of the time. She turned on the speakers and plugged in her iPod. The music was loud and booming, just the way she likes it. For some reason the sound all around her helps her think.

Her phone buzzes.

**She's down at 1200 Broadway. Parking lot. –Moriarty**

**I didn't ask. –RS**

**No. But I told you anyways. –Moriarty**

**Why? –RS**

**I like to watch you dance. –Moriarty**

Rose sighs. She checks her pocket and makes sure she has her gun. She goes downstairs and hails a cab.

"Twelve hundred Broadway, please," Rose says.

oOo

She pays the cabbie with some money John gave to her for emergencies. She searches the parking lot, checking for a crying woman. Rose finally finds her. She approaches carefully. The woman's eyes widen and she makes attempts to shoo her away.

Rose holds up the palm of her hand. "Don't say anything," she says to the woman. Rose looks at the lady, taking in every detail of her. Her tearstained eyes to her cropped hair to the miscellaneous wires and explosives strapped to her body.

Rose says after a while, "I'm going to get you out of here. You will be just fine. You remember the man you talked with on the phone?"

The woman nods.

"Well, I'm helping him. You are going to be just fine. I promise."

The woman gives Rose a tiny smile. Tears run down her face. Rose smiles back, and walks away.

"Oh, and don't tell anyone I saw you. They will get in worse trouble than you're in right now, okay?" Rose says.

The woman nods in understanding, tears still running down her face.

Rose's phone buzzes again.

**Thank you for pointing out her location to us. –MH**

**How on earth did you get my number? –RS**

****

Not important. How did you know where to go? –MH

**I thought about it. Maybe you could do the same. –RS **Rose lies. Then she realizes something.

**Hang on a minute, have you been spying on me? –RS**

**Surveillance is the term I prefer. –MH**

_People just love to play with my life, huh?_ Rose doesn't answer Mycroft. She heads back to the flat and grabs a map. She checks the map of London for very public places.

_Now, if he were to plant a bomb that would kill lots of innocent people, where would the most likely place be?_ She rules out extremely public places, like museums and tourist attractions, because too much investigation would go into that. _Places that would be shocking, but not entirely unexpected. Hotels_. Rose checks the Internet for popular hotels in London. Her heart sinks. _163 million results_.

She receives a text from Sherlock at that moment.

**Carl Powers. We're coming back to the flat. –SH**

Rose picks up everything and cleans up any evidence that she had been out. She turns on her music again and broods.

Sherlock and John come back to the flat a few minutes later.

"Shut that off! I'm working!" Sherlock has to shout because Rose's music is so loud. Rose obliges him. Sherlock pulls out files and files of past cases that had interested him. Finally, he finds the one on Carl Powers.

"Who's Carl Powers?" Rose asks.

"Before your time. Champion swimmer. Drowned when he came up to London for a swim meet. Lived in Sussex. The shoes were his," Sherlock explains hurriedly.

Rose examines the newspaper articles Sherlock had pulled out. "Died at age eleven?"

"Unfortunate, yes."

Rose takes a deep breath and pushes all thoughts out of her mind. _I need to focus on this. I can't help the crying woman if I can't think._ But the woman remains in her mind as a constant motivator, acting as a catalyst for Rose's newfound energy. Rose combs through all the articles related to Carl Powers.

John opens the door to the kitchen, where both Sherlock and Rose are stationed. "Can I help? I want to help, there's only five hours left." John's mobile beeps. "Its your brother," he says to Sherlock. "He's texting me now. How does he know my number?"

Sherlock just says, "Must be a root canal."

John won't give up, though. "Look, he did say 'national importance.'"

Sherlock snickers. "How quaint."

"What is?" John asks.

"You are. Queen and country."

"You can't just ignore it," John says.

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now," Sherlock informs him.

"Right. Good." John crosses his arms and stands there; not realizing whom Sherlock is talking about. "Who's that?"

"You. Put on a suit. You're going to see Mycroft. Gather details about Andrew West," Sherlock says, never once actually looking at John.

"You… What about Rose?" John asks.

"Like I said. I'm putting my best man on the job."

Rose doesn't give any sign that she has heard Sherlock. _Well, I guess he's known John for longer than he's known me. Of course he'd trust John with something like that. And anyways, it doesn't matter what he thinks, so sod it!_

John sighs and goes to change. He leaves a few minutes later.

oOo

Rose inspects the shoes. She didn't have a chance to before.

"Take the shoes apart. Everything must be disassembled," Sherlock demands. Rose puts on some latex gloves that Sherlock has and swiftly takes apart the shoes, piece by piece. She removes the laces and hangs them on a rack Sherlock had previously set up. _Rack? More like string and clothespins_, Rose chuckles to herself. Rose takes out the liners and uses a small kitchen knife to cut out the tongue of the shoe. She cuts the sole of the shoe away and dissects the main body of the shoe. She hangs all the pieces on the clothespin rack.

Rose reviews all the data she has on the case. _Okay, a boy, eleven years old. He had eczema, took medicine for it. Had big feet. Moriarty had something to do with it, that's why the shoes disappeared twenty years ago and appeared this morning. He came up from Sussex to London for a swim meet. It's about an hour by train, hour and a half by car. He drowns in the water._

"How exactly did he die, Sherlock? What happened, right before he died?"

"He had a fit in the water. By the time they fished him out, it was too late." Sherlock considers Rose for a second. "What do you think?"

Rose thinks. "Something about the shoes will tell us. That's why they disappeared. There was evidence that there was something fishy going on. Pun intended."

Sherlock almost smiles. "Yes, but what do you think happened? You're supposed to be an expert at this sort of thing." _At subtly killing people_. "Obviously, no one pulled a trigger, or detonated a bomb. It was individual. Targeted." Sherlock pauses as an idea comes to him. "Oh."

Sherlock stands up and puts on gloves. He takes the shoelaces off the rack and takes them over to his microscope.

"What is it?" Rose asks.

"His eczema medicine. What if someone slipped something into his medicine and that affected his performance so much he couldn't swim properly and drowned? There were still flakes of skin on his shoelaces." Sherlock stops talking and focuses on the shoelaces.

"Oh!" Rose says. She mentally reviews all the poisons that Moriarty had at his disposal. Only a few of them caused paralysis. She keeps thinking as Mrs. Hudson drops off some food for them. John arrives in the flat a few minutes later. _And this was some years ago, Moriarty would have been eleven, too. What toxin could a youth get, a toxin that causes paralysis, and that would have been easy to mix in with eczema medication?_

"Clostridium botulinum!" Rose and Sherlock say at the same time.

"What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asks. Sherlock bangs his fists on the table, and Mrs. Hudson jumps.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock says. When he sees John's confused expression, he clarifies. "Carl Powers."

"So, you're saying he was murdered?" John asks, not following yet.

"The eczema medicine. It was in the medicine," Rose says, bringing John around to the clothespin rack. "Powers applied the medication to his feet. Botulinum causes paralysis. He comes up to London, the poison takes effect, and he drowns," Rose explains.

"How come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" John asks.

"Virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it," Sherlock says. He types something on his website. "There were still small traces of it on the shoelaces, from where he put the cream on his feet."

"That's why the shoes had to disappear," Rose breathes.

"The killer kept the shoes, all these years."

"Meaning?" Sherlock asks him.

"He's our bomber."

The pink phone suddenly rings. The crying woman is on the phone again. "Well done, you. Come, and get me."

"Where are you? Tell us where you are," Sherlock tells her.

Police are there moments later.

Rose sighs in relief. _Baker Street: 1, Moriarty: 0_

**Author's note: I completely made up the address for the parking lot the woman was in. I don't live in London, never been there, so I'm sorry for all of you who got a little confused by that. **


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

**Author's Note: As you've read, I've never been to London. In this scene, where Sherlock is conversing with the second victim, I'm assuming that the poor man wrapped in Semtex is right outside of Scotland Yard. This may or may not be true, I don't know. But it helps the plot here.**

Sherlock

Rose sighs in relief. _Baker Street: 1, Moriarty: 0_

Baker Street stays awake that night. John only nods off for a few minutes. There's too much tension in the air for anyone to sleep for long.

oOo

The next morning, the trio heads down to New Scotland Yard. They make their way to Lestrade's office.

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you," Lestrade says to Sherlock. "She had to read out from this pager."

"And if she didn't say precisely what was on the pager, the bomb would be set off," Rose says.

"Or if the case hadn't been solved," John adds.

"Oh. Elegant," Sherlock whispers.

" 'Elegant'?" John asks, exasperated.

"What was the point? Why would anyone do this?" Lestrade asks.

"I can't be the only person who gets bored," Sherlock says. _This, this isn't boring at all. I almost wish this happened all the time._

The pink phone beeps again.

"You have one new message," the phone says. Four pips are emitted from the phone, the fourth being the longest.

"Four pips," John notices.

"First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second," Sherlock says, showing the photo to Lestrade. It's of a car, the license plate showing.

Rose and John look at the picture as well.

"It's abandoned, can't you see?" Sherlock asks.

"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade says, using his landline to check.

The door opens, revealing Sally Donovan. "Fr-" she sees Rose and stops. "It's for you," is all Donovan says.

Sherlock takes Donavan's phone and walks out of Lestrade's office. Rose follows.

"It's okay that you've gone to the police," a voice on the phone says. _Male_.

"Who is this? Is this you again?" Sherlock asks. Rose looks questioningly at Sherlock.

"But don't rely on them," the voice finishes. "Clever you. Guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me. So I stopped him laughing."

Rose looks out the window into the street below. There's nothing really out of the ordinary. Except a man on a phone, in a pale coat. He's holding something out in front of him. A pager. He's just standing there.

"So you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock says.

"This is about you and me," the man says back.

"Who are you? What's that noise?"

"The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry. I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time, you have eight." The call ends.

"Great." Lestrade hangs up the phone. "We've found it!"

Rose runs out of Scotland Yard. She exits the building and races to the man with the pale coat.

"Stop it. Stop this," Rose says to the man, knowing Moriarty will reply. The man glances at the pager.

"Why? I'm having fun," the man hiccoughs, not quite crying.

Rose shakes her head. "We'll stop you, you know."

"Hm. I don't think so, Rose."

Rose looks pityingly at the man. She addresses the victim this time, not Moriarty. "Relax. We have eight hours. We'll solve his little puzzle."

Rose walks back to Scotland Yard, where Lestrade, Sherlock, and John are waiting for her.

"The victim is right there," she points him out to Lestrade.

"Good, thanks."

Sherlock hails a cab, and they head off to unravel this new riddle.

oOo

The cab takes them out to an abandoned warehouse near the Thames.

"The car was hired yesterday, by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind. City boy, paid in cash. Told his wife he was going on a business trip and he never arrived," Lestrade reads from a file.

"Still hanging around him, then?" Donovan asks John. Rose is with Sherlock, inspecting the driver's seat.

"Yeah, well…" John starts.

"Opposites attract, I suppose."

"No, we're not…"

"You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains, safer," Donovan advises him.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. DNA checks out," Lestrade tells Sherlock. Sherlock grabs something from the glove compartment.

"No body," he says.

"Not yet," Donovan says cynically.

"Get a sample sent to the lab." Lestrade nods, then looks at Donovan. Donovan stares at him back, then sighs and carries out the task. Rose follows her.

"Why are you so against Sherlock? He's brilliant, and you lot couldn't figure out anything without him. Why do you hate him so?" Rose asks her.

" 'Brilliant'?" Donovan snorts. "He's a psychopath. Solving crimes won't be enough for him one day. Eventually, we'll all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

"No. Never. You don't know him. He would never do that," Rose says vehemently, shaking her head.

"Why does he bring you along anyways? You look enough alike. Are you his daughter?" Donovan asks, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"He would have started young for that to happen," Rose sniggers at Donovan's lack of observation skills.

Sherlock and John are walking back to the cab. Rose catches up to them.

"Fishing. Try fishing!" Donovan calls after John.

"So, what did you find out from Mrs. Monkford?" Rose asks Sherlock.

"Referred to her husband in the past tense. She knows something," Sherlock replies. "Janus Cars. Found this in the glove compartment," he says, passing the card to John. Both Rose and John look at it, and head to the main offices of Janus Cars.

oOo

"Can't see how I can help you gentlemen. And lady," Mr. Ewart says, looking at Rose.

"So, Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday?" John asks.

"Yeah. Lovely model. A Mazda RX8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself," he answers.

"Is that a Mazda?" Rose asks, pointing to a picture on the wall. Sherlock catches her eye and nods. _She can pull it off, because the stereotypical girl knows nothing about cars. Amazing, the facades she can put up. _Rose grins, knowing exactly what he is thinking.

Mr. Ewart looks to where Rose is pointing, and both Rose and Sherlock catch a look at his tan line.

"No, sweetheart. That's another type of car," Mr. Ewart says in a sickly sweet voice, like he was talking to a two-year old.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I don't know much about cars," Rose giggles.

Mr. Ewart smiles. "That's quite alright."

"But can't you afford one? I mean, you own all of these, right?" Rose asks, motioning to all the cars in the maintenance garage.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweet shop. Once you start picking out the best licorice, when does it all stop?" Mr. Ewart says, scratching his arm.

"So you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asks, wanting to get back to the case.

"No, he was just a client. He came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him, poor sod."

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewart?" Sherlock asks, seemingly out of the blue.

"Eh?" Mr. Ewart is caught off guard.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh, the, uh, no. It's the, um, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah," Mr. Ewart answers gesturing to his face. "Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though."

"You've got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asks. _Let's see what he has in his wallet._ Rose looks at him questioningly, remembering the nicotine patches.

"What?" Mr. Ewart asks.

"Well, I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change. I'm gasping," Sherlock says, holding out a bill.

Mr. Ewart grabs his wallet out of his pocket. "No, sorry."

"Oh, well. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewart. Been very helpful," Sherlock says, exiting. Rose smirks and follows suit, and John leaves after her.

"I've got change, if you need to…" John offers.

"Nicotine patches, remember? I'm doing well," Sherlock says.

"So what was all that about?" John asks.

"He needed to see the contents of the wallet. I'm betting he found something?" Rose asks, looking at Sherlock.

"Yes, I did. Mr. Ewart's a liar."

oOo

John, Sherlock, and Rose go to Bart's. Sherlock uses the lab, and John is nearby, trying hard not to fall asleep. Rose is in the computer lab, sitting at one of the desktops.

She searches for more places the bomb could be. She rules out eighty percent of the hotels she's found, and she also searches for the apartment building that she had been trapped in.

Rose eventually narrows it down to ten hotels and six apartment buildings. She hears the phone ring next door, in the lab. She walks into the laboratory and listens to the phone call.

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name," the man on the other end says.

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" Sherlock asks.

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."

"Then talk to me in your own voice," Sherlock replies.

"Patience."

Rose goes back to her computer and memorizes the ten hotels and six apartment complexes. Then, she clears her Internet history.

oOo

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asks Lestrade. They're at the parking garage, where the abandoned car is parked.

"How much? Mm, about a pint," he answers.

"Not about, exactly a pint. That was their first mistake," Rose says. "The blood is Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Lestrade asks. Rose rolls her eyes.

"There are clear signs," Sherlock says. "Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some months ago and that's what they spread on the seat."

"Who did?" John asks.

"Janus Cars," Rose answers. "The clue is in the name."

"The god with two faces?" John asks.

"Exactly. They provide special services. If you've got any type of problem, money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars allows you to disappear. Ian Monkford was in some type of trouble. Financial, I'd guess. He's a banker, couldn't see a way out. But, if he were to vanish, the car he'd hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the seat…" Sherlock explains.

"So where is he?" John asks.

"Columbia," Sherlock answers.

"Columbia?" Lestrade echoes.

"Mr. Ewart of Janus Cars had a twenty-thousand peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too. He'd told us he hadn't been abroad lately. But when Rose asked him about the pictures of cars on his wall, she and I could clearly see his tan lines. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed," he says the last part to John. "That plus his arm."

"His arm?" Lestrade asks, still confused.

"He'd been scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jump. Hep B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion, he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia."

"Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and splits it with Janus Cars," Rose finishes.

"Mrs. Monkford?" John asks, amazed at the speed at which the two geniuses made these deductions.

"Oh yes, she's in on it, too. Now, go and arrest them, Inspector, that's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." Sherlock turns dramatically and walks away.

"I am on fire!" he shouts, excited.

oOo

They head back to the flat and the first thing Sherlock does is type a message on his computer. **Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia.**

He hits send, and mere seconds later the pink phone rings.

"He says, you can come and fetch me," the man says. "Help. Help me, please!"

Rose smiles, relieved that the danger is over for now.

oOo

The next day, Sherlock, Rose, and John head to a restaurant. _John needs to eat, and there's nothing at the flat. He needs to have his strength up._

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asks John, seeing color return to his friends' cheeks.

John nods, shoveling food in his mouth. "We've barely stopped for breath since this thing started," he says once he swallows. "Has it occurred to you…"

"Probably," Sherlock answers, looking at the pink phone. Rose is sitting next to him in the small café.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber is playing a game with you? Really, though? Breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes. It's all meant for you."

"Not really. He said it was a birthday present for someone," Sherlock says, looking at Rose.

Rose shrugs. "Obviously, I have a psychotic admirer," she laughs jokingly.

John grimaces at her. "Seriously. Is it him? Is it Moriarty?"

Time slows down. Sherlock stares at her. John holds her gaze. Rose dreads answering it, dreads lying to them.

"I don't know. It might be, he just hasn't made himself known," is all she says, shrugging.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John seems satisfied with her answer, though, and keeps eating.

Just then, the pink phone beeps. Sherlock answers it. There are three pips now, along with a picture of a woman.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock says, baffled.

"Could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed," John says dryly.

"How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." John stands and grabs the remote for the television. He switches it to a channel, and the woman in the photo comes on.

Then, the phone rings. Sherlock answers. "Hello?"

A whispery voice comes on. "This one is a little, defective. Sorry. She's blind," the voice tells Sherlock. "This is a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asks.

The voice waits a moment. "I like to watch you dance."

The call ends.

Rose looks up at the television. Connie Prince, a TV personality, had just died.

oOo

"Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?" Lestrade asks Sherlock.

"Nope," he answers, looking at the body.

"Very popular. She was going places."

"Not anymore," Sherlock comments. Rose almost smirks.

"So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus enters the bloodstream. Goodnight, Vienna," Sherlock says.

"I suppose," John agrees.

"So, what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock asks.

"Eh?" Lestrade says.

"Can't be that simple, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong," Sherlock says.

Rose gets a close look at the body. She notices the wound on Prince's hand, the scratches on her arm, and the strange marks on her forehead.

"This. This is what's wrong," Rose says, pointing to the gash on Prince's hand. "It would have been a deep cut. Lots of blood. Look at the scratches on her upper arm. But it's clean. And fresh. It was made after her death. John, how long would the bacteria need to incubate inside her?"

"About eight to ten days." He pauses as a realization came to him. "She was murdered."

"How did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" Sherlock asks himself. He turns to John. "You want to help, right?"

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background, family history, everything. Get me data," Sherlock orders.

"Right." John walks away with his mission. Sherlock is about to step outside too, but Lestrade stops him.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of."

"Is there?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock answers.

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"

"Bad Samaritan," Sherlock quips.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you, but out there, somewhere, some poor sod is covered in Semtex and he's just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?"

"Something new."

Rose follows Sherlock out.

oOo

"Connections, connections, connections. Must be a connection," Sherlock mutters as he paces around the flat. He's made a web of string, connecting all the victims, cases, and murders above the sofa. Rose has plugged in her headphones and cranked up the music so she can think and not bother Sherlock.

"Carl Powers. Killed twenty years ago. Bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off?"

The phone rings again. Rose takes off her headphones to listen.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Enjoying the dance? Three hours. Boom! BOOM!"

Sherlock puts the phone away and starts to think hard. Rose heard the terror in the woman's voice and starts to kick her brain into gear.

oOo

"Great. Thank you. Thanks again," Sherlock hangs up the phone. Rose is surprised, because Sherlock doesn't talk like that to anyone.

Mrs. Hudson starts talking to Lestrade. "It's a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."

"Colors?" Lestrade asks.

"You know. What goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."

"Who's that?" Lestrade asks, since Sherlock just got off the phone.

"Home office."

"Home office?"

"Well, home secretary, actually. Owes me a favor."

"Pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces."

That's when an idea pops into Rose's head.

"Did you ever watch her show?" Mrs. Hudson asks Sherlock.

"Not until now." They watch a small portion of one of Prince's episodes.

"No love lost there, if you can believe the papers," Mrs. Hudson says when Prince's brother comes on.

"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites are indispensable for gossip."

"Sorry, wait a minute. Mrs. Hudson, who gave Connie Prince botox injections?" Rose asks.

"Oh, she mentioned it in once of her episodes. Raoul, the house-boy, gave her the injections," Mrs. Hudson answers. "Supposedly, Raoul and Kenny, Connie's brother, are together."

oOo

After twenty minutes, John calls Sherlock from Prince's house. Sherlock says he'll be there right away, and leaves immediately. Lestrade leaves with him. This leaves Rose alone in the flat.

She goes out and checks each of the ten hotels that are on her watch list. She walks around them and notes where they are in the city, how popular they are, and about how many people are staying in each one.

Then, she goes for the apartment buildings. She asks the managers how many people are staying there and registers where they are in the city.

All in all, she's narrowed the bomb's location to five hotels and two apartment complexes.

**Where are you? –JW**

**Out. –RS**

**No really? Where are you? –JW**

**Coming back to the flat. –RS**

**From where? –JW**

**Hotel. Checking something out for the case. Didn't lead anywhere. –RS**

**K. From where in London? What's your ETA? –JW**

**5 minutes. –RS**

**Head to Scotland Yard. We're going there right now. -JW**

Rose hails a cab and tells the cabbie, "Scotland Yard, please."

oOo

Rose, Sherlock, and John get to Scotland Yard at the same time.

"Raoul de Santos? Increasing the dosage of the botox injections? Botulinum poisoning?"

"Yes." Sherlock answers.

Rose smirks. "Knew it." John raises an eyebrow, but disregards it. They enter Scotland Yard.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer," Sherlock announces to Lestrade.

"The house-boy for the Princes. Connie Prince didn't die from tetanus, she died from botulinum poisoning. Raoul gradually increased the dosage of Connie's botox injections. Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Rose says.

"Botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl Powers?" Sherlock asks Lestrade to jog his memory.

"Bomber's repeated himself," Rose says.

"Among other things, Raoul was hired to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me Raoul's Internet records. He's been bulk-ordering botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose," Sherlock says.

John stands agape at the two geniuses. He is genuinely shocked. John puts his hands on his hips.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asks, looking at both Rose and Sherlock.

"I'm sure," Sherlock answers.

"Yes," Rose says.

"Alright, my office," Lestrade motions to both of them.

"Hey, hey. How long have you both known?" John asks, staring hard at both of them.

"Well, this one was quite simple actually. Like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake," Sherlock says.

"I don't know why he gave us twelve hours. I had this one in five," Rose says.

"No. What about the old woman? She's been there all this time!" John hisses, angry that the two people in front of him have to regard for how the elderly lady is feeling.

Rose sees John's point. "I know. I know. I should have said something earlier. But I got sidetracked. I thought I had a lead, but it wasn't anything."

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that he had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? A one up on him!" is Sherlock's excuse.

Sherlock strides into Lestrade's office. He accesses his website and types, **Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.**

The phone rings a moment later.

"Hello?" Sherlock asks.

"Help me," the woman cries.

"Tell us where you are? Address?"

"He was so…His voice…" the woman started.

"No! No! Tell me nothing about him!" Sherlock yells into the phone.

"He sounded so soft-"

BANG!

Sherlock's eyes widen, his mouth half-open. Rose immediately guesses what happened. She's sitting across from Sherlock, her expression one of stupefaction. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth. Rose takes deep breaths to calm herself.

"Hello?" Sherlock says.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asks, concerned.

"What's happened?" John asks.

Sherlock doesn't answer. Neither does Rose.

oOo

Later that morning, they see the story on the news.

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killed twelve people," an announcer says on the telly.

"A whole block of flats," John whispers, looking at Sherlock and Rose. John is sitting in his chair and Sherlock is sitting in his. Rose slouches against the desk, sitting in the chair there. She's still numb about the fact that Moriarty killed the old lady. And eleven other people.

"-caused by a faulty gas main-" the announcer continues.

"He certainly gets about," John says.

"Well, obviously, I lost that round. Although technically, I did solve the case," Sherlock says, angrily shutting off the television.

John drops his arm.

Sherlock comes to a realization. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?" John asks.

"Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact."

"Like the Connie Prince murder. He arranged that. So people come to him when the crime's fixed up, like booking a holiday?" John asks.

"Novel," Sherlock whispers.

"Heh," John huffs. He's seeing the story about Raoul de Santos being arrested. He looks back to Sherlock.

Sherlock is staring at the phone. "He's taking his time this time."

John asks, "Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

Sherlock answers, "Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?"

"No, but the thought had occurred," Rose says.

"So why is he doing this, then? Playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?" John asks.

Sherlock folds his hands underneath his chin. "I think he wants to be distracted."

John laughs and gets out of his chair. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

Sherlock doesn't reply, then asks, "Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual **human** lives! Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John shouts, furious at Sherlock's lack of empathy.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock asks.

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue to not make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?" John asks.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?" Sherlock asks, crinkling his brow.

"No. No," John shakes his head, smiling bitterly.

Rose watches this argument. Normally, she enjoys what she learns from the arguments, but this time, it seems deeper. More personal.

Sherlock notices something. "I've disappointed you."

"Good, that's a good deduction, yeah."

"**Don't** make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

John stands there, stoic as ever.

Rose sits, watching the scene unfold. She smiles and shakes her head, unseen by both men.

The phone beeps again.

**Author's Note: Okay, I will do my absolute best to get another chapter out before the 28****th****. That's when the school term starts for me. I promise not to abandon this fic! I will update at least once a week, maybe twice a week if I have the time. Please review, tell me what you think!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**John**

John stands there, stoic as ever. Rose sits, watching the scene unfold. She smiles and shakes her head, unseen by both men.

The phone beeps again. 

"Excellent!" Sherlock says. He checks the phone. The phone sounds two pips this time. There's a view of the Thames on the screen. "View of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers and I'll look online…" Sherlock looks up at John.

John's hanging his head, looking more disappointed than ever.

"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark," Sherlock says as he searches things on his phone. He searches the Thames plus high tide and Riverside.

John just glares at Sherlock for a moment. _Doesn't he care at all for people? Is he human? Does he have emotion?_ John is so frustrated with Sherlock. _For not caring! Why doesn't he care?_

"I'll search, John," Rose says, starting to get up.

"No, no. It's fine." John plunks himself down on the sofa and sorts through the newspapers. Rose opens John's laptop and bypasses the password lock. She looks online for any news of findings near the Thames.

"Archway suicide," John offers.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock snaps. Rose flinches at how harsh Sherlock sounds.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington," John says. Sherlock says nothing, and John sees something of interest. "Ah, man found on the train line, Andrew West."

"Nothing!" Sherlock says, frustrated. He calls someone on his phone. "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

oOo

"Do you reckon this is connected? The bomber?" Lestrade asks as they make their way to the body.

"It might be. Probably. But he didn't call. That's the only weird part," Rose answers, examining the corpse.

"But we're going to assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode?"

"Yes." Sherlock says.

"You got any ideas?"

"Seven. So far."

Rose and Sherlock pull on some latex gloves. Rose steps down and examines the cadaver first. She inspects the face. She notices the bruises and ripped shirt pocket. Sherlock strips the corpse of its socks and checks the soles of the feet and the calves. Rose presses the buttons on the dead man's watch, gingerly testing them. Rose checks the trouser pockets of the dead man and finds a wet wad of ticket stubs. She puts them back. Rose also checks the soles and calves of the dead man once Sherlock is finished. They exchange a glance and nod at each other, clearly having come to the same conclusions.

Sherlock looks at John then the dead man, silently ordering him to inspect it. John looks at Lestrade to ask permission. Lestrade pulls an expression, as if to say, 'Help yourself.'

"Dead twenty-four hours, maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?" John asks Lestrade.

"No." Rose answers before Lestrade has a chance to. "Asphyxiated. See the bruising near his mouth and nose? Clear signs. The murderer would have been quite tall, or in really good shape. A man of his size-" she points to the corpse "-would have fought back."

Rose walks off and makes a quick call. John watches her for a moment, then turns his attention back to the dead man. Sherlock searches something on his phone.

After checking the missing persons list, Sherlock focuses back to the two men in front of him. John was saying something.

"In his late thirties, I'd say. Not on the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing. That lost Vermeer painting's a fake." His lip quirks.

"What?" Lestrade asks. "What painting? What are you going on about?"

"It's all over the place," Sherlock says, looking at Lestrade like he's an idiot. "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch old master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."

"Okay. So what does that have to do with the stiff?"

Sherlock grins. "Everything. This is the work of a professional hit man. He strangles his victims. Obviously, it's his trademark style."

Rose comes back. "Just like we thought. It was Golem," she confirms to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods. "What do you know of the Golem?" he asks the two men.

"It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" John asks.

"Jewish folk story. A huge man made of clay. Also the alias for an assassin, real name Oscar Dzundza. Like an anaconda, he squeezes the life out of his targets. One of the deadliest contract killers in the world. Nice guy, actually, when he's not working," Rose says.

_She did__** not **__just say that. Rose! Why did you let that slip? Now Lestrade is going to start asking questions!_ John thinks, mentally face palming himself.

Lestrade looks shocked. "You've met him?" he asks, trying to not let his mouth become a parking garage.

"Briefly. Long time ago," Rose says, backtracking. "Anyways, this is his trademark style." She points to the body.

"So this is a hit?" John asks, trying to get Lestrade's attention away from the fact that Rose had met the Golem.

"Definitely," Sherlock answers, picking up on what John is trying to do.

"But what does this have to do with the painting?" Lestrade asks, distracted. "I don't see…"

"You do see, you just don't **observe**!" Sherlock says, irritated.

"All right, all right, girls. Calm down. Sherlock? Do you want to take us through it?" John asks in a diplomatic manner.

Rose raises an eyebrow at the word 'girls.' John sees and apologizes silently.

"What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much. Just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty polyester. Nasty. Same as the shirt-cheap. They're both too big for him, so some type of standard issue uniform. Dressed for work then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock shoots him a look. _Clearly saying 'Idiot!'_ John smiles.

"Security guard?" John offers.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside." Sherlock motions vaguely to the body.

"Backside?" Lestrade asks, incredulous at what Sherlock can learn from one's 'backside.'

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died," Lestrade points out.

"No. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. The alarm was set like that a long time ago. Routine never varied. But the Golem was interrupted. Otherwise, he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some type of badge or insignia on the shirt pocket that would have would have been easily recognizable. That's why the pocket is torn, to remove it," Rose says.

Sherlock reaches inside the trouser pocket. He pulls out the slimy clump of paper. "Sodden by the river, but still recognizably…"

John peers at the ball of paper. "Tickets?"

"Ticket stubs," Sherlock corrects. "He worked in a museum or gallery. I did a quick check. The Hickman gallery has reported one of its attendants missing." He points to the cadaver. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

John looks at Sherlock with wonder. "Fantastic."

"Meretricious," Sherlock says, shrugging.

Lestrade can't help but add, "And a Happy New Year!"

_Seriously, Lestrade? _John glares at him. "Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade says resignedly.

"Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

"Me," Sherlock answers, grinning.

oOo

In the cab, Sherlock mutters, "Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?" He leans forward and tells the cab driver, "Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now? The Gallery?" John inquires.

"In a bit."

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got a hold of an Old Master?" John asks.

"Don't know. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data." Sherlock writes something in a notebook, tears out the page, then folds the paper in a bill. "Stop!" he shouts at the driver. Sherlock jumps out of the cab and tells John to hold the cab and wait there. He spans the railing at the edge of the pavement. Rose follows him, scrambling over the railing in an attempt to catch up to Sherlock. She sees him hand the note to a homeless person, then walk back to the cab.

"Have you got any cash?" Sherlock asks John. John nods.

"Who was that?" Rose asks.

"My homeless network. My eyes and ears all over the city. More useful than the police most of the time," Sherlock says dryly.

When the cab starts up again, John asks Rose, "How did you know it was the Golem? And not some other person who had the same style of, that type of stuff?" John hesitates to say anything that the cab driver might overhear.

"I have contacts all over the city. Whenever I would do a job, I would always make sure I would do a couple of favors for a few people. It made the job a little longer, but it paid off in the long run. One of my contacts keeps records of known hit men, their preferred methods, their aliases, and tracks their movements," Rose answers.

"Why don't you give that contact to the police or the government? I'm sure that would be handy," John argues.

"My source is in the government. They're doing the best they can, but figures like the Golem are slippery. They know that he's in London somewhere, I just had to verify it."

oOo

At the Hickman Gallery, Sherlock gets out. When John and Rose move to do the same, he tells them, "No. John, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address."

"What do I do?" Rose asks.

Sherlock smirks. "Wait for the Golem."

Rose looks intrigued. "I have to wait for him?"

"Yes. My homeless network will find him and alert us to his location. The woman that I gave the money to will be outside of Speedy's when she has the location. You need to wait for her and incapacitate Golem. When she asks you for spare change, reply, 'Don't mind if I do.'"

Rose considers this. "But why can't I go look for him now? I'd be a lot quicker than your homeless network."

"No, you're not. Just wait for her. Entertain yourself. She'll probably be there in a few hours." Sherlock orders her. He shuts the door and tells the cabbie, "221b Baker Street." Once the cab is on the road, John receives a text.

**Make sure she goes inside the flat. –SH**

**Okay. But I've just texted Lestrade. Woodbridge's home is closer to here than Baker Street is. –JW**

**I know. Make sure Rose gets inside the flat. –SH**

**Why? –JW**

**Because she will most likely disregard what I said about the homeless network being faster than she is and look for the Golem on her own. –SH**

**She's smart. Why would she disregard your advice? –JW**

**Because she will have correctly guessed that the homeless network is not faster than she would be trying to find him. –SH**

**Why'd you lie to her? –JW**

**The Golem is a dangerous figure. Rose has less chance of being injured if she knows his location before she averts him from killing again. Plus, both of us will be done in a few hours anyways, and we can accompany her. –SH**

**So you want to prevent her from getting injured? –JW**

**Isn't that what I just said? –SH**

John smiles. **Yes, I just had to hear you confirm it. –JW**

**She is of no use to me if she's injured and can't move. And if her injuries are serious enough, she may need to use a hospital and require operations that need her to be unconscious. Then she wouldn't be able to think either. –SH**

**Okay, okay. –JW** John rolls his eyes.

Rose sees him texting and smiling. "Who're you texting?"

"Sherlock. He's giving me extra instructions," John says, trying to hide the smile. _Doesn't care, my bum! Caring is a mistake. Yeah, right!_

"Oh, and you're eager for extra instructions, are you?" Rose asks jokingly.

"Yes, actually."

oOo

When the cab arrives at 221b, John makes sure that she goes into the flat. When he sees Rose wave at him from the window, John tells the cabbie the address of Alex Woodbridge.

oOo

After Rose waves goodbye to John, she types seven anonymous letters to the hotels and apartments where she thinks the bomb is. She changes her clothes into something normal, something ordinary. Then, she walks out of the flat and hand delivers the letters.

None notices her. It's almost too easy. Disguise is not about wearing all black clothes and creeping around. The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight, she thinks. Rose drops each of them off in the mail and goes back to the flat, to await news.

She draws and thinks in her spare time. She's puzzled as to how the painting could be a fake. Finally, she texts John out of boredom.

**Find out anything about Woodbridge? –RS**

**Not all that much. Liked astronomy a lot, didn't know much about art. Someone called him, a Professor Cairns. She said he was right about something. –JW**

**K. Thanks. –RS**

Rose looks up a Professor Cairns plus astronomy. She memorizes the information, thinking it might be useful later.

oOo

About two hours later, Rose spots the same homeless woman that Sherlock gave money to. She bounds downstairs and walks up to her.

"Spare change?" she asks.

"Don't mind if I do," Rose replies. The woman looks a little confused, but gives Rose the slip of paper. It reads Vauxhall Arches.

A cab pulls up to the pavement at that moment, and out hops John. Sherlock is walking towards both of them, not far behind.

"Vauxhall Arches," Rose tells them, a look of excitement on her face_. She's been cooped up. Of course she wants to get out_, John thinks.

oOo

They get out at the Arches.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, looking up at he sky.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," John says as he looks at the sky.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," Sherlock says back.

"Your brother must need clear skies for something, Sherlock," Rose says mischievously.

"Hm?"

Rose points at the sky. "Right now, we're in central London. How on earth can we see this star field? Never, in a million years, could we see that on a normal night. The government must need the skies clear for something."

"Oh, Sherlock. Forgot to tell you. Listen. Alex Woodbridge has a message on his answerphone at his flat, a Professor Cairns?"

"This way," Sherlock directs them, ignoring John.

"Nice. Nice part of town. Anytime you want to explain," John says.

"Golem has a very distinctive look. He's really tall and bald. Huge hands. He needs to sleep where tongues won't wag, much," Rose says.

They spot a shadow of a man. He starts to stand up, eventually measuring up to over seven feet tall.

"Sherlock!" John says.

"Come on!" Sherlock says.

Rose pulls her gun from her pocket. John does the same, only he realizes he's forgotten it.

"Oh…"

"Don't mention it," Sherlock says, handing John his pistol.

Golem suddenly breaks into a run and jumps into a car. Rose runs out and fires several times, aiming for the tires. She stomps her foot in frustration.

"No, no, no, no! It'll take us weeks to find him again!" Sherlock fumes.

"Or not. I have an idea where he might be going," John says.

"What?"

"I told you. Someone left Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the phonebook."

oOo

They arrive at the theater of the planetarium too late.

"Golem!" Sherlock shouts. Golem snaps Professor Cairns neck. But Cairns' fingers must still have been on the controls, because as Golem let go of Cairns, the room plunged into darkness.

"I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!" John shouts.

Rose turns around, covering Sherlock's blind spot. "John! Where is he?" she bellows. She hears Sherlock run off. She turns around to find that Sherlock is helping John try to fight off the Golem. Golem is attempting to strangle Sherlock, and John has jumped onto Golem's back. She fires a warning shot.

"Come on, Dzundza! Stop! You've eliminated your targets, now leave them alone!" Rose shouts. "Don't make me shoot for real."

Sherlock and John pause when they hear the venom in her voice. Golem uses that spilt-second of hesitation and throws John off of his back and push Sherlock forward. Golem runs.

Rose takes aim and shoots. Her first shot misses, but her second shot hits Golem's arm. He hisses in pain, but keeps running. Rose fires a third shot, and this one hits him in the leg. The Golem finally makes it to the door and disappears.

Rose drops her gun and examines the men.

"You okay?" she asks both of them.

"Never better," John answers from the floor.

"You okay, Sherlock?" Rose asks. Bruises were almost forming on his neck.

"Fine," he says croakily. He bangs his fist on the floor, frustrated that Golem got away.

oOo

"It's a fake. It has to be," Sherlock says angrily. They're at the Hickman Gallery the morning after Cairns is killed.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Miss Wencelas says.

"It's a very good fake, then." Sherlock turns to face her. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

Miss Wencelas looks at DI Lestrade. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing you and your friends out?"

"Shut up! He's not the only one who says this is a fake. I know it's fake, too," Rose spits out.

Miss Wencelas laughs. "How could you know anything about art?" she asks spitefully, looking Rose up and down.

"The same way I know you're lying right now."

Miss Wencelas rolls her eyes. "Please. I have to get ready for tonight."

The pink phone rings. Sherlock answers and puts it on speaker. "The painting is a fake."

The only reply he receives is the sound of heavy breathing.

"It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

"Oh come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

Nobody answers.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Okay. I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

The voice of a child come on, to everybody's horror. "Ten."

Sherlock spins and looks at the painting.

"It's a kid! Oh, God, it's a **kid**!" Lestrade is shocked.

"What did he say?" John asks, panicked.

"Ten. He said 'ten.' It's a countdown," Rose says, trying to help Sherlock.

"Nine."

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?" Sherlock thinks aloud.

"Eight."

He shoots Miss Wencelas daggers of death. "This kid will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake! Tell me!"

Miss Wencelas opens her mouth to speak, but Sherlock stops her.

"Seven."

"No, shut up! It only works if Rose or I've figured it out."

John starts pacing, unable to bear the tension. Rose stands by Sherlock, examining every bloody inch of the painting.

"Must be staring at me in the face," Sherlock mutters. His eyes rove over the painting.

"Six."

"Come on." Rose hears John.

"Woodbridge knew, but how?" Sherlock asks.

"The sky. Astronomy! The planetarium!" Rose shouts. Both geniuses' eyes snap up to the night sky in the painting.

"Five."

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade says urgently.

"Sherlock!" John says.

Sherlock stares at the three stars. He finally realizes what it is. "Oh!"

"Four."

"In the planetarium! You heard it, too! Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!" Sherlock says delightedly. He hands the phone to Rose and pulls out his phone. He types in a couple words and laughs.

"Three."

"What's brilliant? What is?" John asks.

"This is beautiful! I love this!" Sherlock smiles.

_Hurry up! There is a kid, about to die, and you're SMILING! SMILING! LAUGHING! For God's sake…SHERLOCK!_ Nothing can express John's frustration.

"Two."

"**SHERLOCK**!" Lestrade roars.

The aforementioned consulting detective grabs the phone out of Rose's hands and yells, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

There is no answer for a second, but the little boy's voice comes back on. "Please. Is somebody there? Somebody help me!"

Sherlock sighs in relief. He tosses Lestrade the phone. "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up." He holds up his phone. "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen-fifty-eight." He walks away. Rose is taking deep breaths to calm herself, but she's grinning widely.

"So how could have been painted in the sixteen forties?" John grins cheekily at Miss Wencelas. "Oh." At that moment, John receives a text from Mycroft. John snarls softly, then looks back at the painting. "Oh, Sherl…" he walks toward his flat mate.

oOo

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock, Lestrade, and Rose interrogate Miss Wencelas.

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wencelas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it." When Miss Wencelas doesn't answer, Sherlock asks, "What are looking at here, Inspector?"

"Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…" Lestrade says thoughtfully.

Miss Wencelas finally speaks, agitated. "I didn't know anything about that! All those things! Please believe me."

Rose gives a tiny nod to Lestrade, indicating that she's telling the truth.

"I just wanted my share, the thirty million," Miss Wencelas continues. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really. Brushwork, immaculate, could fool anyone."

Sherlock huffs sarcastically, "Hmm!"

"Well, nearly anyone." She looks at him briefly. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world that the picture was genuine. It was just an idea, a spark that he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock asks.

Miss Wencelas shakes her head. "I don't know."

Lestrade laughs disbelievingly.

"It's true!" Miss Wencelas protests. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually, I was put in touch with people…his people."

Rose watches as Sherlock becomes more concentrated. His brow furrows and eyes narrow.

"Well, there was never any real contact. Just messages, whispers."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock says intensely to her.

Miss Wencelas nods. Rose grits her teeth. "Moriarty," Miss Wencelas murmurs.

oOo

One the cab drive home, everyone is silent. It's deafening. As they enter the flat, no one says a word. John makes tea, Sherlock broods, and Rose draws in her journal on the sofa.

Finally, the silence is too much for John. "Did you know it was Moriarty all along?"

Rose sighs. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?" John looks in her eyes.

Rose shrugs. "I thought I could handle it myself." Even now she doesn't tell them the whole truth. She considers the bomb too big a threat.

"You can't go through life thinking you can always go it alone, Rose," John scolds her.

Rose looks at her journal. "Okay," she says softly.

oOo

At the station at Battersea, John and a Tube driver talk about Andrew West and where he was found.

"So this is where West was found?" John asks, pointing to a section of the railway.

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh."

"You going to be long?" the driver asks.

"I might be."

"I hate 'em."

"The police?" John asks.

"No. Jumpers. People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish sods."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," John says sarcastically.

"I mean it. It's all right for them. It's over in a split second. Strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers? They've got to live with it, haven't they?"

John runs his fingers over the railway. "Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line. Has it been cleaned off?"

"No. There wasn't that much."

"You said his head was smashed in," John says, confused.

"Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood."

"Okay." John looks down the line, thinking.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then. Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right," John replies. He goes a little farther and squats down. The Tube driver walks off.

"Right, so uh, Andrew West got on the train, somewhere- or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

Right then, the points change and one of the tracks slides sideways. John looks at the tracks thoughtfully.

"Points."

"Yes!" John shouts. He jumps up to see Sherlock standing next to him.

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock smiles. "West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" John asks, still ecstatic from his discovery.

"Since the start. You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" He turns and starts walking in the opposite direction. "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

oOo

Rose sits in the flat, staring into space. She's lying down on the sofa looking up at the ceiling. John's laptop lays open on the coffee table beside her.

Officials had investigated the sending of the bomb warnings. Rose knows that they'll never trace them back to her. But everyone had panicked and they searched the hotels and apartment complexes inside and out. No trace of a bomb. Not even a firecracker.

She thinks. And thinks.

oOo

"The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, I know. I've met them," John says with a grin.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" John looks around. They walk up the brick steps of the house. "Sherlock! What if there's someone in?"

Sherlock inserts something in the lock. "There isn't." He withdraws his lock pick and steps inside.

"Jesus!" John mutters softly. "Has Rose been giving you tips?"

Sherlock doesn't answer.

"Where are we?" John asks.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe…?" John tries to recall the name.

"Brother of West's fiancé." Sherlock looks out the window. "He stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law." Sherlock crouches by the windowsill and examines it with a small magnifier.

"Then why'd he do it?" John asks.

"Let's ask him," Sherlock says as he hears the door opening.

John reaches for his gun and walks toward the front door of the flat. He reaches the landing just as Joe Harrison does. When Joe sees him, he picks up his bike, intending to throw it or use it as a weapon. John raises his pistol and aims it at Joe.

"Don't," John warns. "Don't."

Joe leans against the wall.

When they had sorted themselves out, with Joe on the sofa and John and Sherlock standing, facing him, Joe says, "It wasn't meant to…" He rubs his hands all over his face. "God. What's Lucy going to say?" He buries his head in his hands.

"Why did you kill him?" John asks.

"It was an accident." When Joe hears Sherlock snort, Joe protests, "I swear it was."

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock asks sternly.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno, I dunno how it started. I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. Then, at Westy's engagement do, he starts talking about his job."

Joe sighs. "I mean, usually he's so careful. But that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans, beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick, waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish-tips and whatnot. And there it was, and I thought, well, I thought it could be worth a fortune.

"It was pretty easy to get the think off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

"What happened?" John asks.

"I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

Sherlock looks at Joe Harrison with distaste. He pushes the curtain aside and glances out the window, "When a neat little idea popped in your head. Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points," John adds.

"Exactly," Sherlock says.

"Do you still have it, then? The memory stick?" John asks. Joe nods unhappily.

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind," Sherlock says.

As Joe fetches the stick, Sherlock turns to John and privately converses with him.

"Distraction over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber," John says.

"Five pips, remember? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

oOo

The windows haven't been replaced yet. It's freezing in 221b. Sherlock is watching telly. John is typing on his laptop, and Rose is reading _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.

"No! No! No! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" Sherlock shouts as the audience boos. He is sitting in his armchair, knees drawn into his chest and arms wrapped around his legs.

"Knew it was dangerous," John chuckles.

"Hmm?"

"Getting you into crap telly."

Rose smiles from the sofa. She's sitting upside down, clearly unable to get comfortable any other way.

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince."

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick?" John asks.

"Yup. He was over the moon. Threatened me with knighthood. Again."

"You know, I'm still waiting."

"Hmm?" Sherlock is really into this show.

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do you any good, did it?" Sherlock tries to work his way around John's extremely good point.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

Sherlock smiles. "True."

John stands and closes his laptop. "I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. Rose, that risotto is for Sherlock. You can make your own food."

Rose nods. "Okay."

Sherlock is still focused on the telly. "Mm!"

"Uh, milk. We need milk," John pauses at the door.

"I'll get some."

"Really?" John is shocked.

"Really."

"And some beans, then?" John asks_. Is he feeling okay? In the three months we've flat-shared, he has never offered to do something as simple as get shopping._

Not once does Sherlock look directly at John. "Mm," he nods.

John is still surprised, but he walks out of the flat. Sherlock hears the front door open and close. Sherlock sneaks a glance at Rose. She's still reading, but now she's right-side up. The book is completely obscuring her face. Sherlock opens his computer and types on his website, **Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect.**

Sherlock thinks for a moment. **The Pool. Midnight**.

He sends before Rose can see and shuts the lid. He gazes off into the distance. Rose falls asleep a couple hours later. Sherlock checks his phone. The bright numbers contrast sharply with the dark of the room. 11:36

He makes sure Rose is asleep. He leaves for the pool.

**Author's Note: Okay, like I said. I got this chapter out, and I'll get another chapter out by next Friday, for sure. If I can get another chapter or two out before then, I will, but I do now have actual schoolwork. *sighs***


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

**Rose**

He makes sure Rose is asleep. He leaves for the pool.

* * *

After ten minutes, Rose "wakes up." She was never asleep in the first place.

_It takes a good actor to know one, _Rose thinks. _The stage lost a great performer when Sherlock Holmes decided to become a detective. First things first._

Rose makes sure her gun is fully loaded before putting it in her pocket. She ties her hair up into a bun on her head. Rose ties the laces of her black Converse sneakers. Rose checks herself in the mirror one last time before leaving the flat.

_Just like a job, she thinks. Gun, trainers, hair up and out of the way. But maybe this time I can save a life._ She walks back into the living room and opens Sherlock's laptop. John had hidden his before he left. When the password screen comes up, Rose groans in frustration.

_Okay, what would he put as his password? What could be so important to him that he would never forget it but insignificant or bizarre enough that it would be overlooked? Knowing Sherlock, it's probably a jumble of random numbers and letters. _Rose closes her eyes in thought. _No. Never overestimate your target. Just as dangerous as underestimating him. It's a name. But whose?_

She glances at the keypad of the laptop. _Very old_. She uses a small magnifier and a bright lamp to see the oil deposits of Sherlock's fingers. _N, R, S, J, E, H, and O. What name has all of those letters?_ Rose quickly makes a few anagrams from the letters.

_Norsejh._

_Resojrh._

_Jroehsn._

_Ehnrosj_

_Osjenrh_

None of them make any sense. _Who does Sherlock value more than anything else? _Rose thinks for a moment, and then the penny drops. _John! I have all the letters to make 'John.' So what are all the other letters for?_

She examines the keyboard again in desperation. _Moriarty might be torturing him right now_! The image of Sherlock's limp, bloody spurs Rose's brain into high gear. _Because Sherlock will undoubtedly have gone to face Moriarty. Like only the bravest of idiots would do._ She smiles faintly.

_There's something strange with the keyboard. The 'O' key is dirty, more than usual. He taps the 'O' key twice, every time he opens his laptop._ She makes a few more anagrams before she finally realizes what his pass code is.

JohnRose. _The two names dearest to him._ Any other day, the revelation would have made Rose pause in wonder that anyone would hold her in such high esteem. But this was not 'any other day'.

She opens Sherlock's website, the Science of Deduction. The latest message on there was **Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.**

_What pool?_ Rose searches the list of pools near to Baker Street before she remembers that Carl Powers drowned in a pool. She searches where and glances at the clock. 11:59

oOo

The door to the pool opens. Out steps Sherlock Holmes. He glances upward, well aware that the bomber is most likely up there.

"Brought you a little getting to know you present? Oh, that's what it's all for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this." Sherlock holds up the memory stick he obtained from Joe Harrison. He hears a door open, and he turns his head to see who is entering the pool.

"Evening," John Watson says nonchalantly. He's wrapped snugly in a warm coat, hands in his pockets. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" Sherlock stares at him in utter shock. He slowly lowers the hand holding the memory stick.

"John? What the hell…" he says softly.

"Bet you never saw **this** coming."

Sherlock slowly, stupidly, starts to move towards John, still dumbfounded that the bomber is John. He looks like a little lost boy. Wholly desperate for this to be false. John, suddenly matching Sherlock's expression, takes his hands out of his pockets and pulls open the jacket he has on, revealing a bomb strapped to his chest. A red sniper's laser flickers across the bomb.

"What would you like me to make him say next?" John asks, clearly being dictated to by the real bomber. Sherlock continues walking towards John, relieved beyond compare that John isn't the bomber. He turns slowly as he walks, trying to discern where the bomber is.

"Gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear," John's voice breaks on the last phrase.

"Stop it," Sherlock says, an edge in his voice.

"Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him," John cringes a little at the next words, "I can stop John Watson, too." John stares at the dot on his chest. "Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asks, barely containing his rage.

At the far end of the pool, a door opens. A plaintive voice calls out to them in a soft Irish accent. "I gave you my number. I thought you might call." Neither John nor Sherlock can see the speaker.

Sherlock turns around to see the origin of the voice. He sees a man, well dressed. The man puts his hands in his pockets and walks along the edge of the pool.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" the man asks.

Sherlock raises the pistol, unafraid. "Both."

The man stops and smiles at them. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

Sherlock looks closely at the man, more confused than ever.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Moriarty starts walking toward Sherlock and John again. He bites his lip, disappointed. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that **was** rather the point."

He stops right at the corner of the pool, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock glances at John briefly, then back at Moriarty with a questioning expression.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He looks at Sherlock. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see-" Moriarty looks surprised suddenly, as if he's just made the connection, "-like you!"

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Sherlock asks.

Moriarty walks forward, grinning as he realizes the television show that Sherlock is quoting.

"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so," Moriarty says, stopping again.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock says in awe. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Jim Moriarty smiles proudly. "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

Sherlock cocks his pistol. "I did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now," Moriarty says in a singsong voice. He starts walking toward Sherlock.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play." Sherlock's eyes flicker back to John. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."

"Although, I have loved this. This little game of ours." He switches to a London accent for a moment. "Playing Jim from IT." Moriarty switches back to his normal voice. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Sherlock stares him down. "People have died."

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty roars the last word, his demeanor switching in the blink of an eye.

"I will stop you," Sherlock says softly.

"No you won't," Moriarty simply says.

Sherlock looks at John again. "You alright?" he asks.

John looks away, clearly having been given orders not to say anything that wasn't dictated to him by Moriarty.

Moriarty comes up behind John. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

John only nods, not wanting to totally obey Moriarty's orders.

Sherlock pulls one hand away from the pistol and holds out the memory stick, keeping the gun aloft in the other hand.

"Take it."

"Huh? Oh, that! The missile plans!" Moriarty takes the stick from Sherlock and kisses it. He looks at it.

"Boring!" he says in a singsong voice. "I could have got them anywhere." Moriarty tosses the stick into the pool. At that moment, John runs behind Moriarty and holds Moriarty close to him, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his waist. Sherlock backs up in surprise and the hand holding the gun falters for a moment.

"Sherlock, run!" John yells.

Moriarty laughs. "Good! Very good!"

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John tells him savagely.

Jim says to Sherlock, calm for someone being threatened, "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."

John snarls and pulls Moriarty closer to the bomb. Moriarty scowls at him. "They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" Moriarty leers at Sherlock, then at John. "You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

A red dot appears on Sherlock's head. John stares at the dot in terror. Moriarty chuckles, and Sherlock shakes his head slightly, realizing what's happening from John's face. John lets Moriarty go, hands up and in sight of the snipers. Moriarty straightens his suit indignantly.

"Westwood." He stares at Sherlock. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

Sherlock says in a bored tone, "Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

Moriarty says, "Kill you?" He grimaces. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you." Moriarty looks Sherlock up and down.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," he growls, although he looks regretful by the end of the sentence.

Sherlock considers Moriarty, still holding the gun. "I have been reliably informed I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty grins wickedly at him. Sherlock blinks.

"Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat." Moriarty smiles and half-turns to leave.

"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?" Sherlock asks, raising the gun even more and extending it toward Moriarty's head.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty says, undisturbed by the idea. He opens his mouth and widens his eyes, acting out his surprise. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would." He scrunches up his nose a little bit. "And just a teensy bit…disappointed."

"But not disappointed in me," Rose says, coming out of the door that John entered through. She's holding her gun high, mirroring Sherlock. Sherlock, John, and Moriarty look at her with amazement. A sniper's dot appears on her head. "After all, you did teach me how to kill."

"Rose! I was wondering when you'd join us," Moriarty says with delight. Rose curls her lip in distaste.

"Rose! How did you get here?" Sherlock hisses.

"I was never asleep, Sherlock. I guessed the password to your computer and came straight here. Sorry I'm late. There were some men who tried to stop me from getting to you. Sadly, they didn't do their job," Rose says, never taking her eyes off Moriarty.

"Rose? None of us heard you. How?" John asks softly.

"John, I'm an assassin. You're not supposed to know I'm there," Rose says with a smile that doesn't meet her stone eyes. She takes the safety off her gun.

"If either one of you talks now, I'll blow Johnny-boy up," Moriarty threatens both John and Sherlock, staring them in the eye. Several more red dots appear on John. Moriarty looks back at Rose.

"Hello, boys!" Rose says brightly to the snipers. "Let's see, who's joined the party? I know moron's up there, along with, hmm, Bill? And Frank? Couple more. Must be new ones. You've been recruiting," she says the last part to Moriarty.

"Well, you know how it is. I have to find replacements every couple years," Moriarty says, shrugging.

"Yeah. Got to make more kids orphans, kill a few families. Same old, same old," Rose says, menace tingeing her words.

"Exactly!" Moriarty says happily. "Little Rose. My second favorite assassin in the world. How's your birthday?" he asks all of a sudden. "You didn't have to kill anyone this year. Not as enjoyable, I know."

Rose keeps a blank face as she keeps her gun level with Moriarty's head.

"Been sleeping well? Any new nightmares?" Moriarty asks, leering at her.

Rose narrows her eyes. "You tell me."

"Have they changed?"

Rose doesn't answer, but her hands tremble slightly.

"The woman in the alley? The ambassador's child? The newborn infant? Ava and Jason?" Moriarty asks, venom in his voice.

Rose keeps the pistol aimed at Moriarty, but her eyes say that she's a million miles away. Her blank face struggles to keep its neutrality. _Don't give him anything. Nothing._

John looks at Rose, concern in his eyes. Even Sherlock feels sorry for her. But Rose pushes those thoughts out of her head. She refocuses her eyes and glares at Moriarty.

"Where is it?" she asks, voice calm.

"Hm?" Moriarty asks, confused.

"The bomb you have planted in the city. Where is it?" _Come on, tell me_.

John and Sherlock exchange bewildered glances.

"Oh. You really believed me?" Moriarty asks, laughing. "There's no bomb."

Rose tightens her grip on the gun. "There was no bomb all along?" she repeats.

"Mmm-hmm. Nope! You really are **so** easy to toy with, Rose. You always want to save people. But you can't! You can't save anyone! That old lady's death and all her neighbors' was your fault!"

John looks at her tenderly, urging her to look at him so he can wordlessly tell her that it's not her fault. Sherlock glowers at Moriarty, planning the best way to stop him. But Rose doesn't see that.

"You're just a killer. That's all you'll ever be. A plague. Destroying everything you touch."

Rose huffs sarcastically, sadly. She never drops her gun. "Tell me something I don't know."

Moriarty smiles.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson. And goodbye, Rose," he whispers.

She looks into his eyes, trying to analyze him. _Like the first time I looked into his eyes. Empty_. He brushes by her and exits.

"Catch you later," Sherlock says to him.

He responds in a singsong voice, "No you won't!"

The door slams behind him. The snipers' lasers disappear. No one moves for a few seconds, and then Sherlock looks at John. He places the gun on the ground and unfastens the bomber's vest on John. He rips the vest and jacket off in one go, and tosses it far, far away from them. Rose doesn't move at all, though her brain tells her she should.

"Alright?" Sherlock asks John. When he receives no answer, he asks again, more urgently, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," John says. "I'm fine. Sherlock!"

Sherlock picks up his gun and moves past Rose, who is still numb. He checks the hallway to make sure that they're safe.

"Oh, Christ," John says as his leg gives out. _Psychosomatic limp. Only comes up after extreme stress._

Rose wants to make sure he's okay, to comfort him. But she's not sure that's her place anymore. _I don't have that right._

Sherlock comes back, and Rose still hasn't moved.

"That, er, thing that you, er, offered to do. That was, um…good," Sherlock says to John.

"I'm glad no one saw that," John says.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asks.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock shrugs. "People do little else." He doesn't meet John's eyes until now, and he bursts out laughing. John snorts softly of laughter. Sherlock's eyes go back to Rose and he sees her, just standing there.

"You okay?" he asks her. Sherlock tries to get her to look at him, but she stubbornly stares at her feet. She slowly, hesitantly, lowers the arm with the gun.

"Rose, don't listen to him. I know you better than he ever could," John says from the deck of the pool. Rose's expression doesn't change. "And he's wrong."

"No. He's right. Every word," she whispers. She looks into Sherlock's blue-silver eyes. For the first time, she withers under his gaze. _I'd never done that before. Usually, I can stand up to just about anything_.

She walks away from the doctor and the detective. She walks toward the door at the end of the pool, the one opposite that Sherlock came through. But as she's walking, she hears Moriarty talking again.

"Sorry, boys! I'm **sooo** changeable!" Moriarty steps out in front of Rose. She whips up her gun by instinct. "It is a weakness of mine. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I **would** try to convince you," his voice turns singsong, "but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Rose had her gun aimed at Moriarty, but she gets an idea. Sherlock walks up and stands next to Rose. She glances sideways at him, and he matches her.

"And my answer has probably crossed yours, " Sherlock says, lowering his gun to point at the bomb. Rose does the same.

Moriarty smiles at Rose. "You wouldn't."

"Bet your life on it?" Rose asks in a steel voice.

Moriarty looks at the bomb, then back at Rose. He starts to become uncomfortable. He smiles, to hide it, at Rose and Sherlock, who continue to point their pistols at the bomb.

Suddenly, a phone rings.

Rose doesn't lose her aim, but she does look around. Sherlock looks back at John, who looks at Moriarty. Moriarty rolls his eyes and sighs.

"You mind if I get that?" he asks.

"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life." Sherlock says sarcastically.

Moriarty answers the phone. "Hello? Yes of **course** it is." He mouths to Sherlock and Rose, 'Sorry.'

Sherlock mouths back, 'Oh, it's fine.'

"**Say that again**!" Moriarty shouts. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you."

Sherlock, John, and Rose exchange glances. Rose quirks an eyebrow.

"Wait," Moriarty says into the phone. He walks forward, toward the bomb. Sherlock tightens his grip on the gun while Rose prepares to shoot.

"Sorry. Wrong day to die," Jim says, looking at the phone.

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asks.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock. Rose." Moriarty walks away enigmatically. "So, if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes," Moriarty says into he phone. He walks through the door and snaps his fingers. The snipers' lasers disappear.

Sherlock looks around the pool to look for the retreating snipers. John lets out a relieved sigh.

"What happened there?" he asks.

"Someone changed his mind. Question is, who?" Sherlock says.

"Dunno," Rose shrugs. She puts the safety back on her gun and turns to face the two men.

"What are you going to do now?" Sherlock asks.

"Dunno," Rose answers again.

"Do you want to come back to the flat with us?" John asks. Rose nods.

Sherlock smiles. "Come on, then."

Rose helps John up. "Did you guys know him? Ever see him before tonight?" she asks.

John and Sherlock look at each other. "We saw him at the hospital. He was introduced to us as Molly's boyfriend."

Rose gazes at them, horrified. "He was **what**?" _No, no, no, no, no. Shoot. _She races out of the pool and into the street. _Molly's house isn't far from here. Pointless to wait for a cab._ She breaks into a flat-out run towards Molly's house.

* * *

**Author's Note: I will do my best to get another chapter out by the 8th. Hope you enjoyed! Please review, they make my day a whole lot happier. Oh, and for the people who didn't know that Sherlock was quoting a TV show, he was quoting _Jim'll Fix It._ It aired on the BBC from 1975-1994. Children would write in, and ask the host Jimmy Savile, for their wildest dreams to come true. They would start the letter like so: Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to...(insert request here). An example would be, ****_"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me so I can get a small part on Sherlock and meet Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch and slap Steve Thompson, Mark Gatiss, and Moffat."_**** Unfortunately, it would be advisable NOT to Google the show. Mr. Savile's reputation has plummeted because of really awful allegations of his behavior during his time at the BBC.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**Sherlock**

**A/N: I live in the US, and we use miles here. I don't know how to estimate kilometers, or meters, but a mile is 1.6 kilometers, about. Also, I've revised chapter 7, so if you want, you can read it. I think it makes more sense now. **

**Thanks to TwoMoon'sLite for pointing out some things I could do better. Search the story, Dark Angel. Awesome story, written by TwoMoon'sLite. Anyways, voila!**

Rose gazes at them, horrified. "He was **what**?" _No, no, no, no, no. Shoot. _She races out of the pool and into the street. _Molly's house isn't far from here. Pointless to wait for a cab. _She breaks into a flat-out run towards Molly's house.

* * *

Rose crouches down by the door of the flat where Molly lives. She hastily inserts two of her lock picks and opens the door to the flat. It's undisturbed. Rose heads straight to Molly's room and knocks loudly on her door.

"Molly! Molly! Open the door!" she bellows.

The door opens seconds later by a tired-looking Molly in a T-shirt and shorts.

"Rose? What are you doing here?" Molly asks sleepily, rubbing her eyes. Rose pushes past her and looks around Molly's bedroom. She glances quickly and notes that nothing looks out of the ordinary. She strides back into the living room, intent to find out what Moriarty has left Molly. But nothing calls out to her, no detail seems to be out of place.

"Rose! What are you doing in my flat? I love to see you, but it's-" Molly looks at the digital alarm clock in her bedroom, "-it's twelve-twenty-two! What are you doing?"

Rose looks perplexed. Her eyes comb the small but tidy kitchen.

"It's not here…" Rose says. She spins around and almost hits Molly, reexamining everything in the flat.

"What's not here?" Molly asks.

Rose suddenly looks abashed. "I don't know."

"Well, why are you here then?" Molly puts her hands on her hips and glares at Rose.

Rose curls her lip. "Your **boyfriend**, Jim," she spits out. "Did he give you anything? Like the stupid gifts that people buy for their significant other?"

Now Molly looks surprised. "He wasn't my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it today."

Rose raises an eyebrow. "Did he give you anything?"

"No. Not a thing."

"And you're okay?"

Molly quirks an eyebrow at Rose. "Yes. Why wouldn't I be? And how did you know about Jim? You never met him."

Rose fake pouts. "I know. Were you trying to keep your relationship a secret from me? Didn't think I'd approve?" she asks, a little sarcastically.

"No, I just kind of forgot. You know…With your birthday and the case…Um, I just forgot to mention it," Molly says sheepishly.

"Well, from now on, you need to consult with me before you go on a date with anyone. And they have to pass my test before they're even eligible for you," Rose announces.

Molly salutes Rose. "Yes, sir!" Molly starts laughing, but she sees Rose's grave expression.

"He really gave you nothing? He never was weird around you? He didn't touch you, did he?" Rose asks as the horrifying thought comes to her.

Molly blushes a deep red. "No! I told you."

"And he really didn't give you anything? Nothing at all, not a necklace, not anything sentimental? No?"

"No. And why do you keep asking?"

"No reason."

Rose leans against the wall of the flat and slowly sits down as the relief finally sinks in. Moriarty didn't give Molly anything. She broke it off. He left Molly alone.

"Can I stay here tonight?" Rose asks from the floor.

"Yes, but won't John and Sherlock wonder where you are?"

Rose thinks uneasily of the pair, how they had heard something she had wanted no one else to hear.

"No. I had a row with them."

Molly looks sternly at Rose. "Well, running away won't solve that, will it?"

Rose droops her head. "No, but…I don't want to talk to them right now. Please, can I just stay?"

Rose hears Molly sigh. "The couch is yours."

Rose leaps up and hugs Molly with relief. "Thank you."

oOo

About an hour later, Molly hears noises coming from her living room. She wonders in panic for a moment if it's burglars, but then she remembers Rose is asleep on the couch. She listens for a moment more before she realizes something's wrong.

Molly rolls out of her supremely comfortable bed and pokes her head out of the doorway. Rose is thrashing about on her couch, clearly in the throes of a nightmare.

"No, no please. This is wrong. Please, no," Rose whimpers. She's rolling around, trying to escape her aggressor. "Please!"

Molly is by Rose's side in an instant. She grabs Rose by the shoulders and shakes her. "Rose! Wake up! It's just a dream," she says, trying to snap Rose out of it. Rose opens her eyes and looks around wildly.

"Where…? What?" she asks in panic. Rose settles down as her gaze focuses on Molly.

"Nightmare," Molly says, explaining. She sits down next to Rose.

Rose rubs her eyes, attempting to be rid of the dream. "Oh, God," she mutters. She stands and heads into the kitchen. She runs the sink and splashes cold water on her face.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Molly asks, watching Rose from the sofa.

Rose grips the sink so hard her knuckles turn white. "No." She doesn't see, but Molly regards her with pity and concern.

The buzzer rings.

"What now?" Molly asks, annoyed. She opens the door to reveal Sherlock and John.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock greets her in his baritone voice. Molly squeaks and slams the door in his face. She stands there for a moment, appalled that **Sherlock Holmes is right outside her door. And that she just shut the door in his face. And he saw her in her pajamas.**

"Sherlock!" she hears John rebuke Sherlock.

"What? I just said hello," Sherlock says.

"But she's in her pajamas! And not expecting anyone!"

"Then why did she answer the door so quickly?" Sherlock knocks on the door this time. "Molly? It's rather rude to leave your guests on the doorstep."

Molly realizes that they're still standing outside. She ushers them in.

"Thanks, Molls," John says. She leads them into her living room, which is small for more than two people. Rose is lying on the couch now, pretending to be asleep.

"Quit faking," Sherlock says to her. Rose sighs and opens her eyes.

"You okay?" John asks Rose. She nods.

"I'm fine, obviously," Rose says, dripping sarcasm. John rolls his eyes. Sherlock narrows his eyes as he deducts Rose. She sits up and Molly sits next to her.

_Pupils dilated. Her right foot is tapping the ground. Only does that when her pulse is racing. Her hair is still up, but it's been tousled. Probably from her run here, but it's messier beyond that. She's been sleeping. Moriarty mentioned nightmares._

"How bad?" Sherlock asks.

Rose grits her jaw. "Really bad."

John looks at both of them. "Is this about…?" Rose gives him a glare that tells him to shut up.

"Oh. Okay."

Molly asks, "What's going on?"

"I suffer from traumatic nightmares about my past experiences," Rose answers, as if this is perfectly normal.

Molly raises both her eyebrows. "Oh? Is that all?"

Rose bounds off the couch. She starts pacing, rubbing her hands together as she walks.

_Tense atmosphere. She can't stand still. She wants to escape, but knows that we won't let her._

"They haven't been appearing lately. Not for about three months, which is a new record. I was lucky if they didn't appear two nights in a row, or in the same night."

"What are they about?" Molly asks gently.

Rose pauses her pacing. She doesn't look at the three pairs of eyes watching her.

"Horrible things, Molly. Things that nobody should have to deal with. So don't ask me to tell you."

"But what if we want to know?" John asks.

"Trust me, you don't. It's better if you don't." Rose folds her arms and stares at the army doctor.

"Well, I'm a doctor. I think it will be better for you if you tell us," John argues.

"And I'm an expert in deteriorating mental health. I am just fine, thank you," Rose shoots back.

"**Rose Holmes, you will tell us what is terrifying you right now, or God help me, I swear you won't go on any cases for a month!**" John shouts, rocking the entire flat. Molly and Rose jump at his outburst, and even Sherlock looks surprised.

Rose and Sherlock look at John oddly.

"John, that's not my name," Rose says, half-smiling that John could be so forgetful.

John looks mortified. "I know. But you're so like Sherlock. I think you really are his daughter sometimes. And I forget that you had a different life before. A life that was so incredibly harsh and damaging. Believe it or not, I care about you. And I hate seeing you like this, not like yourself. So tell me, what are your dreams about?"

Rose's eyes widen. She glances nervously at Molly.

"I'm listening, Rose," Molly says as she crosses her arms.

Rose takes a deep breath, then starts.

"Molly, long story short, I had a rough childhood. Parents murdered at age four. I was kidnapped right after and taken to this huge house full of other orphaned kids like me. This insane man was in charge of it all. At age nine, I killed a woman. In a year, I had another three hundred kills to my name. At age thirteen, my mind broke. I put myself back together. Took about nine months. By then, I was an assassin. At age fourteen, I had six hundred and forty-three lives to my name. At age fifteen, I saw my best friends die in front of me. I met Sherlock, John, and you six months later."

Molly's jaw has dropped. She attempts to form words, but she flounders around for the right ones. John and Sherlock listen silently, having heard the story before.

"You don't have to say anything. I know. Despicable." Rose spits the last word. "It wasn't by choice. My best friends would have died if I didn't kill those people, the only people in the world who made my life worth living. How the heck was I supposed to choose?

"Anyways, I remember most of the 'jobs.' The jobs are my nightmares. This one-" Rose breaks off. She cringes at what she has to say next.

"This one was bad. Really, really bad. My target: Anthony Williams. He had just turned five. He was so happy. His mother had just tucked him into bed-" Rose chokes. She takes a deep breath.

"I was supposed to take his life. I had a small syringe, full of clostridium botulinum. I rarely used poisons. Most of my jobs involved me being more… direct. Anyways, I snuck into his room and prepared to inject him, when he looked directly at me. He saw the needle and didn't scream. He just looked at me, with huge eyes. It was dark, and I could only see the whites of his eyes, but he didn't cry out. He didn't yell. He just sat there. And I think he knew what I was supposed to do. I did the most painful thing I had done yet. With him watching me, I inserted the toxin into his bloodstream. He never flinched, he never cried. He just watched me with those huge blue eyes."

"Wouldn't the autopsy have picked up the needle prick on his body?" Molly asks. _Molly? Asking good questions now, are we?_

Rose smiles sadly. "No. It was clever. Little Anthony Williams had a defective kidney. He was regularly injected with medicines. No one noticed an extra needle prick."

Sherlock watches Rose. John shakes his head in disbelief. Molly purses her lips in anger. "Who would force you to do such a thing?" she asks, furious.

"Your boyfriend, Jim," Rose says with disdain. "That's why I was looking around for something when I first got here. I thought he might have given you something dangerous, like a bomb or something.

"Anthony's one face I see every time I close my eyes. There are dozens more," Rose says softly. She looks down at her feet. "Sometimes, I think I died in that fire with my parents. The part of me remotely human, anyways."

The flat stands still. Not a single sound is heard. Sherlock breaks the silence. "Your past does not define you, Rose."

"Just because you've done those things does not mean that you are a bad person," John agrees.

Molly completes it by saying, "We've all got light and dark in us. But I think that it's what we choose to act on that determines who we are. You did those things to save your friends, the only acceptable reason it is to have done those things."

Rose shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. I've still done them."

"Rose, we've all done things we're not proud of. It's part of life," John tells her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And you think I don't dream about the lives that I couldn't save?"

"I never thought that you, of all people, couldn't save lives," Rose says earnestly.

John chuckles. He looks at Molly. "Well, thanks. We've got to get home now."

Molly agrees. "I've got an early shift in the morning." She stands and gives Rose a bear hug. "If you need me, call me."

"Okay," Rose whispers back. She lingers for a moment longer in Molly's hug, and then pulls away.

oOo

On the cab ride home, Rose is silent.

"How long did it take you to run to Molly's flat?" Sherlock asks her. Rose thinks for a moment.

"About seven minutes. Why?"

John is shocked. "You ran all the way to her flat in seven minutes?"

"No, I ran to her flat in five minutes. I had to pick the lock to get into the floor she lives on. That took about two minutes."

"You can run bloody fast," John remarks. An idea occurs to him. "Did you run all the way to the pool, too?"

"Yeah. It's only about two miles. Only took about six minutes."

"Geez," John breathes. When they arrive at the flat, John pays the cabbie his fare and they enter the cold flat. Rose rubs her shoulder in an attempt to generate heat.

"When are we going to get the windows replaced?" Rose asks, breath turning to mist as she speaks.

"In a couple of days. You can continue to sleep in my room," Sherlock tells her.

"Sorry, but don't you need sleep, too?" Rose asks, putting her hands on her hips. "You need to sleep."

"No, I don't."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Fine. I'm not going to argue with you right now." She stomps into his bedroom. John says goodnight and trudges upstairs. As soon as the door closes, Rose pokes her head out of Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock?" she whispers.

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, Rose?"

"I don't want to go to sleep."

Sherlock regards her. He's sitting cross-legged in his chair. "Lay down," he invites her to sleep on the couch. She lies down, but she's wide-awake.

"Is there any good in me, Sherlock?" Rose asks, her voice barely audible. Sherlock doesn't answer for a few moments.

_Oh, what am I supposed to say? What would John want me to say? I suppose that he would want me to say that she's a wonderful person._

"You're a person capable of doing good. That's all that matters." Sherlock hears Rose sigh, and he knows that he said the right thing.

"Are you any good at the violin?" Rose asks. Sherlock smirks.

"I can play a bit."

"Could you? I don't want to fall asleep. I want to stay awake," Rose says. Sherlock stands and retrieves his violin and bow from the case, where he so reverently keeps it. He tucks the violin under his chin and gently draws his bow across the strings. A gentle melody ensues, soft and slow. The notes fill the air and work their magic on Rose. Tension ebbs from her muscles and she relaxes. Her fists unclench and she smiles softly. Rose's eyes droop before she realizes that Sherlock is trying to get her to sleep. And it works.

As Sherlock finishes, he realizes Rose is asleep. He smiles instead of smirks, and casts his eyes on her sleeping form.

_She looks peaceful. I forget she's so young. I hope she has no nightmares tonight_. Then he wonders if this girl has made him sentimental._ No. Not that far. Yet. There's something about her that makes me want to protect her. Is that sentiment? So she won't get hurt? Despite what John thinks, I do care. I think. Is this caring?_ Then he remembers that Rose guessed the password to his laptop. _Oh. They were my password. Stupid, stupid. She could have gotten hurt tonight. Would I have cared? _Then he remembers the strength of his fury at the thought of someone physically scarring her. _I do care._

To Sherlock's surprise, he thinks that caring isn't awful. It's certainly not as bad as he'd thought it would be. _How interesting_. Sherlock studies the teenager in front of him, contemplating his feelings.

* * *

**A/N: Phew! Made my deadline! It's 9:21 pm as I write this. I am especially busy next week/weekend, so I don't know when I will have the next chapter up. Within the next two weeks, hopefully. Please bear with me; I have to put up with boring teachers and mountains of schoolwork that is clamoring for my attention, but I would much rather write this! Please review and tell me what you think!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

**John**

**A/N: I had some extra time (crazy, I know, right?) this weekend, and I started working on this. New, original case! My first attempt at writing mystery. Please enjoy this! Tell me what you like/don't like, even if you think it's horrible and I should redo it.**

**Let's see if you can identify the geeky reference in this chapter! I think I might add more references, how does that sound? Just to be clear, this is NOT a crossover, I just think it would be fun if there were subtle hints to other various fandoms. Review and tell me if you find it! **

To Sherlock's surprise, he thinks that caring isn't awful. It's certainly not as bad as he'd thought it would be. _How interesting_. Sherlock studies the teenager in front of him, contemplating his feelings.

* * *

Rose has three more nightmares that night. Sherlock plays his violin to calm her down without waking her. It works. Rose stills herself, and she becomes calm and peaceful every time Sherlock's music wafts it's way into her ears. He tries not to play loudly, because he knows that John is attempting to get some much-deserved rest, but after Rose's second nightmare, John stomps down the stairs.

"What do you think you're doing?" John whispers loudly, trying to not wake Rose.

Sherlock gently places his bow and violin on the desk. "I was playing violin."

"Yes, I bloody well know that! It woke me up! Can you be a bit quieter?" John asks. Sherlock nods yes, and John retreats into his bedroom.

_God, he plays his violin at four in the morning, when some normal people are trying to get some sleep! It's bloody annoying! I'm gonna talk to him about that in the morning, when I'm well rested and can yell at him properly._

But John finds that he can't get to sleep after that. He's wide awake, unable to fall asleep. He stares at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Suddenly, he hears Rose calling out.

"No!" she cries in panic. John springs out of bed. _Nightmares? Oh, no. _He hears her cry out again. John prepares to wake her up, but he stops before he reaches his bedroom door. He hears Sherlock's violin play a quiet song. Rose calms down, because he can't hear her shrieks of panic and pain. John puts two and two together, and he chuckles to himself.

_Git was playing the violin for her. He could have told me_, John thinks indignantly_. Then I wouldn't have gotten mad at him. That's not Sherlock, I guess._ Sherlock is still playing.

_Oh well. I might as well fall asleep to his tune_. John crawls back into his bed and falls into a peaceful rest.

oOo

Rose awakens later that morning, around eleven. She opens her eyes and finds Sherlock reading the paper in his leather chair.

"You let me sleep," she sighs, letting her eyes slip closed.

"Obviously."

"Why?"

"You are still young. You need to sleep," Sherlock says. Rose's eyes snap open in fury.

"Sleep? Do you know what sleep means, Sherlock, to me?" Rose says in a dangerous voice. The detective rolls his eyes at the girl.

"Is it nightmares?" he asks belittlingly.

Rose stands up. She inhales a deep breath to keep her rage under control. "No, Sherlock. It means that I have to relive the worst moments of my miserable life. Do you understand why I wouldn't want that? Every time I close my eyes, I see them! **Every. Single. Time!**" Rose can't stop herself from shouting the last part. Sherlock snorts.

"Get over yourself."

The teenager's eyes widen fractionally. "Excuse me?" she asks incredulously.

"I said 'Get over yourself'." Sherlock sneers. "You've dealt with this for so long. You can handle it by yourself."

John speaks at that. "Sherlock. Room. Now." He uses his military voice for saying that. Both geniuses swivel their heads to stare at the army doctor. Neither had heard him come downstairs.

Sherlock gapes at him, then grimaces. He folds his arms and is about to protest when John says, "Now." He doesn't yell. He doesn't shout. But Rose has never seen any man look so intimidating in only a nightshirt and boxers.

Sherlock meekly goes to his room, and John follows him. Rose grits her teeth and aggressively opens the window to the roof, almost cutting herself on broken glass. She scales the fire escape and paces the roof of 221 Baker Street, only seeing red.

"Who does he think he is? He doesn't know what I've gone through. Can't expect him to understand. God, why is so infuriating about it?" she asks herself. She continues to pace the roof. "Funny. I thought he actually cared."

oOo

"What was that?" John asks the taller man angrily.

"She didn't want to go to sleep earlier. I played my violin, and she fell asleep. She was mad at me this morning because of it," Sherlock answers.

"Okay, but why was she screaming at you?" John asks, eyebrow raised.

"She seemed to think that explaining to me that she sees every person she's killed every time she closes her eyes would extract a sympathetic response from me. Or at least tell me to shut up."

"And did it?"

"No."

"What did you say to her?" John asks, mentally face palming himself. _He isn't handling this so well. I need to show him how to do this right_.

"I told her to get over herself."

Now John's jaw drops. "You told her what?" he asks, shocked that even Sherlock would be so uncaring.

Sherlock sighs dramatically. "I don't like to repeat myself, John."

"So you actually told her to get over herself?" John clarifies.

"Yes!" Sherlock answers exasperatedly. John shakes his head in disbelief.

"**Why** would you do that, Sherlock?"

"Well, she needs to stop whining about it."

"Sherlock, she **never** whines about it! If anything, she won't speak to us about it! Before that stupid Game started, when did she ever bring up any mention of her life before us, Sherlock?" The detective doesn't miss a beat.

"Never."

"So why are you being so unkind to her?"

"John, she needs to learn to control her emotions. She can't function properly in this line of work if she looses control every time someone is brusque to her."

John is properly mad now. " 'Function properly in this line of work'? Sherlock, she's a teenager! Not a bloody robot!"

"But she can get hurt if she lets it get to her! If I can get her to deflect the comments and isolate the pain, then she won't be hurt! Don't you see?"

And the pieces click in John's mind. "So you want to prevent her from getting hurt?" Sherlock nods.

"Yes, if she's not hurt, then she can function just fine. She will have the brainpower to figure out cases and puzzles without feeling anything."

John almost smiles. _He almost had it there. He just covers his concern for her with the excuse of the cases. As if I couldn't tell_.

"Okay, Sherlock. You want to prevent her from getting hurt. But I don't think being icy to her is going to help. She's hurt right now, and she's been hurting. If you don't want her hurt, then you have to heal her first."

Sherlock looks amazed that Rose might be hurting right now, at the current moment. _So she can hide her feelings even from the consulting detective_.

"Okay, I understand your motives, Sherlock. But you're grounded. You can't come out of your room until I say otherwise. Think of other ways that you can help Rose."

"Grounded?" Sherlock is confused. "What does that mean?"

John has to bite back a laugh at the look on Sherlock's face. He straightens his mouth into a frown and says in his military voice, "It means that you can't leave this room. Mobile." John holds his hands out for the device.

"But-"

"Now!" John says with emphasis. Sherlock grumbles and defiantly drops the phone on the floor, making John have to bend down and pick up the mobile.

"Thank you. Pound on the door if you need anything." John exits the room and shuts the door, cell phone in hand. He looks around for Rose, then spots the open window. He sticks his head out and shouts, "Rose! Come down! He's grounded!"

Rose scrambles down and back into the flat after she's heard those words. "What?" she asks with a grin on her face.

"Yes. He's grounded. We have the flat to ourselves," John says, smiling because Rose is smiling.

"Alright!" Rose says. She heads into the kitchen. "Would you like some food?"

"Actually, yes. Anything is fine. I've got to get changed." John looks down at his boxers. Rose giggles, pointedly looking anywhere but John's boxers.

oOo

A couple hours later, after a delicious meal of reheated pizza, with John clothed in jeans and a T-shirt, the buzzer rings. Rose answers it to find a young man on their doorstep.

"Hello, can I help you?" she asks courteously.

"Yeah, I have a case for Sherlock Holmes," the boy answers in a politely arrogant tone.

Rose grins. "This way, please." She leads him upstairs and explains to John, "Case." Rose motions for the boy to take a seat in John's chair, while she takes Sherlock's seat and John sits at the desk.

"Now, tell us your name and your case," Rose says, leaning slightly to the left and folding her hands over her left thigh.

The boy raises an eyebrow. "I'd like to speak to Sherlock Holmes, please. Not his **assistant**, and certainly not some **teenaged girl**. Don't you have some romance novel to cry over or something?" And that's when all pleasantries go cold with Rose. The smile freezes on her face, and she narrows her eyes slightly. John shakes his head. _Bad move_.

"Sherlock is preoccupied at the moment. And that is John Watson, not Sherlock's assistant. And I am not merely a teenage girl. If you want Sherlock to work on your case, then you may talk freely to us," Rose says icily.

The boy crosses his arms. "I brought this important case to Sherlock because **he** can figure it out. I won't have some amateur attempt to solve it, because only a genius can."

"Well then, you should tell us," Rose keeps her calm demeanor.

"Sorry. I only want the best on my case," the boy says snidely.

Rose finally rolls her eyes. "Your name is Matt Stewart. You are eighteen years old, a student at uni, studying finance. You have a girlfriend, but I would break up with her; it will save you time and heartbreak. You had a small meal before arriving here, consisting of fish and chips. You are an only child, and you just visited your parents. That jacket is old, so you had it when you were younger. You haven't been sleeping well. One of your friends has died recently. I'm sorry for your loss, but get out." Rose stands and opens the door for the arrogant sod.

Matt looks at Rose with amazement. "You figured that out?"

"No, I observed it. Again, out," Rose says in a calm tone of voice.

Matt slowly stands up. "Yes, you're right. The whole bit. My friend died, but I think it was murder. Will you take the case?" Rose bites the inside of her cheek, reluctant to help one so full of himself.

"Describe it to me, and I'll let you know."

Matt sits down, relieved. "Thanks. I'm sorry for being really awful. God knows I've had a rough week. Good idea not to piss off the people who are trying to help you, right?" Rose nods slightly.

"My friend died last week. His name's Jared Iron. We were supposed to go to uni together, but he died before we could."

Rose sighs. "Okay, I'm very sorry for your loss, but can you please just skip to why you think his death was suspicious?"

"Well, Jared had a girlfriend…" Matt began.

Rose's expression turns to one of disinterest. "Oh, joy. A crime of passion," she deadpans.

"Maybe. I don't know. But I know that Jared was planning to break up with his girlfriend on the night he died. I thought it was a little fishy."

"You have no actual evidence or proof of this? Just 'I thought it was a little fishy'?" Rose asks, incredulous that he would come to a detective without proof.

"I know, I know. Doesn't look good, does it? But it just seemed so weird. I mean, Jared was as healthy as a horse. He played football, and rugby, and he wasn't a bad swimmer. It was strange that he just died without any cause."

"Wait, you said he died without cause? That doesn't happen. No wounds, no marks, nothing suspicious?" Rose asks.

"No."

"Was there an autopsy?" Rose asks.

"Yes, it's being performed now."

"Hmm. I'll be right back," Rose excuses herself. She knocks on the door of Sherlock's room, then enters without permission. "Sherlock?" she calls out to the figure lying motionless on the bed. She receives no answer. "Sherlock? I think we might have a decent case here for you." Sherlock still doesn't move. "Sherlock!" Rose screeches at him.

"What?" Sherlock mumbles.

"Case. Doesn't sound half-boring. Dead man, no identifiable cause of death. No mark, no wound, nothing."

"Has an autopsy been performed?"

"In the works right now."

"Wait for the autopsy. It'll be something dull."

"Sherlock, I have a good feeling about this one."

"No."

"Sherlock! Come on, at least hear him out," Rose protests.

"I just did, based on what you told me. Boring." Rose stomps the carpeted floor, upset that Sherlock won't listen to her.

"Fine."

Rose stomps out of the room, mad at Sherlock. She texts Lestrade.

**Hi Greg. Does the name Jared Iron ring any bells? –RS**

**Matter of fact, it does. One of the cases I'm working on. Why? –GL**

**Client for Sherlock. Says he thinks the death is suspicious. –RS**

**Yeah. He just dropped dead for no reason. I would have told you sooner, but then the bomber business started. –GL**

**Autopsy didn't pick anything up? –RS**

**Working on it now, but so far, nothing. –GL**

**Interesting. Sherlock doesn't want to take the case, but I think I might. –RS **

**You serious? You going rouge on Sherlock and John, now? –GL**

**Not yet. :P –RS**

**Well, come on down to the station. Stuff from the case you might want to see. –GL**

**Kay. Thanks. Be there in a few. –RS**

Rose announces to the two males in the room, "I'll take the case." Matt grins.

"Great!"

"What about Sherlock? Is he coming?" John asks.

"Nah. I'm going solo on this one. Relax," Rose says when she sees the apprehensive look on John's face. "I can handle this." She turns to Matt and says, "What's the best way to contact you? I'll try to give you updates on the case, and I might ask a few questions every now and then. Please answer everything truthfully and immediately, it makes things go a lot quicker."

"Um, my mobile is the best way to contact me, but email comes a close second." Matt gives Rose his number and email.

"Thanks so very much, Matt. I'm headed off to Scotland Yard now. See you!" Rose says as she waves goodbye. She hails a cab and says, "Scotland Yard, and step on it!"

oOo

"Hey, Greg. So, what do we have?" Rose asks.

"Well, he was nineteen, at his house. Only other person in the house was his girlfriend. Date at home, I guess. According to her, they ate around five and were watching a movie. He started feeling peckish about three hours later, and started to munch on some snacks. They had a couple of beers. Around nine, Jared started to complain about dizziness and fatigue. He went to bed, which was really early for him, the girlfriend said, but she chalked it up to the football tournament he had played in the past few days. He kept waking up during the night, sweating and vomiting, probably due to the alcohol. The girlfriend slept in the guest room, and when she tried to wake him up to say goodbye, he wouldn't move. When he didn't respond, she called 999," Greg reads from his notes.

"Why did she try to wake him up?" Rose asks.

"She had an early shift for work."

"Okay. What is the girlfriend's name, is she a suspect, and is she around?" Rose inquires.

"Um, girlfriend…" Lestrade rifles through his notes. "Yeah, well, she was held for questioning, but I don't know if we can call her a suspect. She was really shaken. Jane Martin. Address is 34 Wall Street."

"Okay." Rose logs the information in her phone. "Anything else I should know? Does Iron have any friends or family besides his girlfriend?"

"Yeah. His parents are divorced, but still alive. His little sister and his football team, but that's really it. Only one of his friends from school saw him in the week before he died. His name is Matt Stewart."

"Yeah. Met him."

"Oh, is he the one who called you in on the case?" Lestrade asks.

"Yeah, actually. What's the family's address?"

"Let's see…Mother lives at 86c South Park, and the father and sister live at 42 Hitchhiker Way," Lestrade smiles. Rose types the information into her phone.

"Anything on the autopsy?" she asks.

"No. Well, there's a lot of calcium oxalate acid in various muscles and tissues, and that's odd, but that's about it."

"Thanks. I'll get back to you as soon as I have a lead," Rose departs. She hails a taxi and says to the cabbie, "42 Hitchhiker Way!"

oOo

In the cab, Rose receives a couple of texts.

**Rose, are you okay? –JW**

**Fine, why wouldn't I be? –RS**

**Well, you're chasing a killer. I think I have a right to be worried. –JW**

**Relax, John. Seriously, I swear you were a worrywart mother in a past life. ;) –RS**

**Haha. Where are you headed? Maybe I can convince Sherlock to come join you. –JW**

**If you can do that, I will eat the ears Sherlock is keeping in the fridge. –RS**

**You're on! –JW**

**I'm headed to 42 Hitchhiker Way. –RS**

**Are you serious? –JW**

**Yeah, why? –RS**

**Nothing. –JW** John can barely control his laughter at the flat.

**Don't tell me it's nothing, I can detect when you're trying to hide your laughter, even over text. –RS**

**Oh, I'm going to have to introduce you to some more geeky culture after this case. –JW**

**Looking forward to it. –RS**

* * *

**A/N: There! I did it! Whoo-hoo! Now you have something to look forward to in the next couple of chapters. My own original cases might only be 2-3 chapters long, FYI. But they'll reveal some more aspects of Rose, Sherlock, and John's character.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

**Rose**

**A/N: Hi guys! Thanks for being patient and waiting for the chapter. Mild triggers for some people in this chapter, I think. This case will feature a special needs character. Some happenings in this chapter related to the character in question are based off my own experiences. Just thought I'd let you know.**

**A/N 2: I revised this chapter a bit. Please read, if you get the chance.**

**Recap: Rose is headed to 42 Hitchhiker Way to ask the father and sister some questions about Jared Iron, a man who mysteriously died about a week prior.**

* * *

When Rose gets to 42 Hitchhiker Way, she straightens her hair. Right as she's about to knock on the door, Sherlock and John emerge from a taxi.

"Hey! Didn't expect to see you here so soon!" Rose greets them happily.

"We paid the taxi extra to get us here quickly," John explains. He stares at the address and chuckles. Rose knocks on the door, and a few seconds later, a man appears.

"Hello?" he asks tiredly. _Bags under his eyes. Hasn't slept in a while. Unshaved, hair unkempt. Grieving, probably. No wedding ring._

"Hi. Um, are you Mr. Iron?" Rose asks tentatively. She's shrinking into her timid personality.

"Yes, that would be me," Mr. Iron answers quietly.

"I'm one of Jared's friends. This is my dad and my uncle," gesturing to Sherlock and John. "Can I come in?" Rose asks.

"Oh, yes, yes. Come in." Mr. Iron ushers them in._ The house is a mess_, and Mr. Iron reads Rose's mind. "Yes, I'm so dreadfully sorry. It's been a rough week."

"No problem. I understand," Rose says in a low voice. John can't tell if she's acting or not.

"What did you say your name was, again?" Mr. Iron asks.

"Rose, Rose Smith. I was in his economy class," Rose explains.

Mr. Iron gives Rose a disbelieving glance. "Begging your pardon, but you look a little young to be going into uni," he says.

She shrugs. "I was a couple years ahead."

"Oh." There's a lull in the conversation for a while, but then Rose says,

"Mr. Iron, how are you taking it?"

Mr. Iron looks like he's about to break. He takes a shaky breath and answers with, "Not well."

"Did you notice anything odd before that night?" Sherlock steps in.

"No. I mean, he seemed fine. Healthy and everything. I mean," Mr. Iron stops for a second, "you wouldn't have known he was going to die if you looked at him."

_Real descriptive and helpful_, Rose thinks, but she is sympathetic for the man. _He's just lost his son. _

"Nothing odd happened?" Sherlock presses.

"No."

"Can I speak to your daughter? Jared mentioned her once or twice…." Rose says suddenly. Mr. Iron's eyes widen a little and his mouth straightens.

"He did? Gemma is upstairs….What did he say to you about her?" Mr. Iron asks suspiciously.

"Rarely talked about her, but he said she was absolutely brilliant. Can I meet her?" Rose asks. Mr. Iron seems to be debating something. _What is up with Gemma?_ He says yes, and leads Rose and Sherlock upstairs. John excuses himself because he has to go to the toilet.

"Gemma? Honey? Can I come in?" Mr. Iron knocks on her door. He receives a mumbled response, and gently opens the door.

Gemma Iron is sitting on her bed, staring dreamily out the window. She turns to face Rose, Sherlock, and her father. Rose sucks in a breath quickly. Gemma is a special needs child. She is tall, with frizzy hair, and tiny eyes. Her lips are cherry red, and her body is out of shape from lack of exercise. _No wonder Mr. Iron was hesitant about me meeting her. Oh, well this throws a wrench in the interrogation._

"Hi Daddy," Gemma says with a slight speech impediment. She smiles distantly. "Who are you?" she asks Rose. Rose approaches Gemma cautiously. Sherlock looks on, observant and analytical. Mr. Iron is anxious and wrings his hands. John rejoins the rest of the party at this point.

"I'm Rose, one of your brother's friends. What's your name?" Rose extends a hand for Gemma to shake. Gemma takes it and shakes it floppily, like a child. Gemma's skin is soft and white, fingers free from calluses.

"Gemma," she breathes. Rose grins.

"Nice to meet you, Gemma. I'm sixteen. How old are you?" Rose asks.

"I'm fifteen." Gemma does a double take and looks again at Rose, as if seeing her for the first time. She widens her eyes and her mouth forms an O shape.

"You're beautiful," Gemma says. Rose blushes and looks away. Sherlock allows a smile to escape his icy exterior. Mr. Iron lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. John's grinning from ear to ear.

"Umm…Well…Not really," Rose stammers. Rose rubs the back of her neck and doesn't make eye contact with anyone. "I'm really quite plain."

"I think you're beautiful," Gemma says again. Rose blushes even harder.

"Thank you," she mumbles. _Oh, God. Questions. Jared. Case. She's special needs, what does she know about beauty? _Rose dismisses the thought that she really was beautiful. "Gemma, did your brother do anything weird before he died?"

Gemma's face contorts to one of extreme sadness. Rose feels so sorry for her. A tear falls from Gemma's left eye. "No. He didn't do anything weird," she says in a grief-stricken voice. With her speech impediment, Rose barely understands her.

"What about his girlfriend, Jane?" Rose asks. At the mere mention of Jane, Gemma's eyes widen and she backs away from Rose.

"Jane? Jane? Jane?" Gemma almost shrieks. She scampers away, looking around for Jane. Rose rushes to rectify her error.

"Jane's not here, I promise. Calm down Gemma. Calm down." Gemma calms down, but not immediately. "I think we should go," Rose says. "So sorry for the trouble."

"Not at all. It was very nice to meet you," Mr. Iron says, comforting his daughter. The trio hails a cab and Rose gives the cabbie an address.

oOo

"You were really nice to Gemma," John says, once Rose sits in the cab. She shrugs, looking away. "Really, I mean, special needs people make most people feel uncomfortable…"

"Yeah, I get it. I was nice. Does it surprise you?" Rose asks sharply.

John looks startled. "No, I was just giving you a compliment." Rose sniffs.

"Thanks," she says.

The conversation halts. John asks, "Where are we going?" to break the silence.

"Jane Martin's residence," is Rose's curt reply. She thinks of something. "Sherlock, what is calcium oxalate acid used in, or what derives calcium oxalate acid?"

"Lots of things. Why?"

"In Iron's corpse, they found high concentrations of it in the tissues. Only thing odd about the whole thing."

"Hmm." Sherlock furrows his brow. An idea comes to him. "Oh," he breathes. He asks Rose, "Did Jared Iron eat anything out of the ordinary the night that he died?"

"I guess we'll find out," John remarks as they pull up to 34 Wall Street. John pays the cab, and Sherlock knocks on Jane Martin's door. A few seconds later, a woman appears. _Young, about eighteen. Studies physiology and medicine, very organized, runs track, appreciates reading…Oh! Atticus Finch for Prime Minister! Good book. I didn't know they had those shirts… Owns a scooter, and plays cello._

"Can I help you?" she asks crossly.

"Jane Martin?" Sherlock asks. Jane nods.

"And who are you?" Jane asks.

"Hi-" Rose and John start.

"Yes, we're from Scotland Yard. We wanted to ask you a couple of questions," Sherlock lies smoothly, interrupting John and Rose.

"I've already spoken with the Yard" Jane says, folding her arms. Sherlock just says,

"Yes, we just wanted to clarify a couple of details. Actually, it might take a while. Can we come in?"

Jane sighs, "Fine." She walks them through her abode. They walk into the living room, which leads into the kitchen, which leads into the rest of the house. Her flat is sparsely decorated and furnished. The only furniture in the flat is a couch, a television, a kitchen table, and two chairs. Jane drags the chairs over to the couch and motions for her guests to sit down. Jane starts to boil a kettle of water.

"So," she starts, wiping her hands on a cloth, "what would you like to know?"

"Well, um, before we start, can I use your bathroom?" Sherlock asks. Rose raises an eyebrow, and John scoffs, though he covers it with a cough.

"Yes, of course. Straight through the kitchen, second door on your left."

"Thank you," Sherlock thanks her, and then hastily makes for the bathroom.

"Can you tell us what happened again that night?" John asks.

"Yeah. I got to Jared's house at four-thirty-ish. I had brought some snacks for his sister and father; Jared had told me that they were going to come over the next day, so I made them a special treat. I brought ice-cream for Jared and I, and a couple of beers. We ate at five-ish and watched a movie. Jared snacked on some stuff a couple hours later. He didn't feel well after that, dizziness and what-not. I slept in his guest bedroom, and when I tried to kiss him good-bye, he didn't wake up." Jane's voice is cracking. _She wasn't being emotional earlier, but I guess telling the story make you have to relive it again_.

"What snacks did you bring?" Sherlock asks. Rose starts. She hadn't realized that Sherlock was back so quickly. Jane stiffens, if only slightly.

"I brought flavoured gelatin for his sister, and a different type for his dad," she answers, fiddling with her jeans.

Sherlock asks another question. "Did Jared eat his sister's gelatin?"

Jane answers, "Yes." She sighs. "Look, I'm really not ready for any type of questioning again. Can you come a different time?"

"Of course," John says courteously. He stands, and Rose follows his lead. Jane practically ushers them outside, and she slams the door in their faces. Rose, being extremely quiet, presses her ear to the thin wooden door. She hears Jane sobbing. Rose shakes her head and joins Sherlock and John at the pavement.

"Well, what did you find?" John asks Sherlock.

"They need to arrest Jane Martin. She murdered her boyfriend on accident," Sherlock says simply. He texts Lestrade: **If the gelatin has calcium oxalate in it, arrest Jane Martin. -SH**

"Sherlock, they're not still going to have gelatin from a week ago," Rose rolls her eyes.

"You'd be surprised at what the Yard does."

"How did you figure that out?" John asks.

"Calcium oxalate acid. Commonly used in anti-freeze, which tastes sweet. You wouldn't notice it if you had tasted it, especially in something like flavoured gelatin. She had anti-freeze in her cupboard, but she doesn't own a car. Suspicious?"

"Yes, but-" John begins.

"No, John, he's right. But why?"

"Something to do with the sister," Sherlock says. A light bulb goes off in Rose's head.

"He was going to dump her that night, but he put it off. Why? Because he was sick. Why was he sick? He ate gelatin meant for his sister. Why would Jane poison food meant for his sister? I'm betting that Jane didn't get along with Gemma, judging by the way Gemma reacted when I said Jane's name."

"Well, let's ask Jane again, shall we?" Sherlock asks. He turns toward the house. Rose sees a curtain swish, and a feeling of dread settles in the pit of her stomach. She grabs her gun and cocks it. She walks slowly toward the front door. Rose knocks.

"Hello? Jane?" Rose calls out. No answer. Rose's danger sense blares. Rose locks eyes with John and Sherlock, and nods at them. John breaks down the door, and it's eerily quiet inside. Rose, gun out in front of her, searches the apartment. No one is home.

"Where is she?" John wonders when the trio meet up again.

Sherlock begins to think. "Check the alleys and back streets. She couldn't have gotten far. Call if you find anything." John and Rose nod, and they split up. John checks the neighboring houses, Sherlock the back streets, and Rose the alleys.

oOo

Fifteen minutes later, Rose gets a text from Sherlock.

**Found Jane Martin. Back street, North Tower. Quick. -SH**

Rose hurries to North Tower Street. She finds Sherlock and John standing over Jane Martin. She's back up against the wall, curled into a ball. Rose carefully aims at her.

"Please! Please! It was an accident! Please! I didn't mean to! Believe me, please! Don't kill me. It was an accident," Jane whines pathetically, tears dripping down her face. Rose doesn't put the gun down.

"It was an accident that you put anti-freeze in the gelatin? It was an accident that someone ate it?" Rose spits at her. Jane flinches.

"I didn't mean to kill him," Jane begins.

Rose snorts. "Yeah, you only meant to kill his sister! Like that's any better!"

Jane moans. "I don't know what I was thinking. Jared...I loved him..." she sighs. Rose clenches her jaw. Her finger tightens on the trigger momentarily, but not hard enough to shoot. Rose's voice is calm and even. "So you tried to bump off his sister, did you?"

"You don't understand," Jane whimpers, finally looking at Rose.

"Enlighten me." Rose's eyes are hard as steel. John moves closer to her, to prevent her from doing anything stupid.

"Gemma was in the way. She was monopolizing his time; time that he could have spent with me. He had been dropping hints for months that he was really stressed from being pulled every which way. He had football, his family, me, his two jobs, and the start of uni was coming up. He mentioned needing to drop a couple things to focus more on the things that mattered. Then he became distant, more aloof. I picked up the hints and panicked. I thought that if he didn't have his sister around anymore, he could still be mine," Jane says. She buries her head in her hands. "God, I don't know what I was thinking. I loved him so much, and I needed him."

"Did you tease her? Mock her? Make her feel inferior to you?" Rose hisses. John places his hand on her shoulder. She was so tense, he thought she might spring at Jane.

Jane curls up even farther into herself. "Yes," she whispers. "I did. Every time I saw her, I would say horrible things. Awful, awful things. And I'm sorry."

"Call Lestrade, tell him we have Iron's killer," Sherlock barks. Rose picks up her mobile. She glares at Jane Martin.

"With pleasure."

oOo

After ten minutes, Jane Martin is being hauled into a police car. Lestrade says, "Thanks for that."

"It was terribly easy, even Anderson should have figured it out," Sherlock says bitingly.

"Yeah, well, it's good we have you, then." Lestrade thanks Sherlock, Rose, and John. The trio hails a cab, and they're on their way back to the flat when John asks,

"So, why were you so angry? I mean, you were furious. I thought you might, well, lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster." He says it lightly, but there's concern in John's voice. Rose shakes her head.

"Every time Moriarty punished me for saying no, he would try to make me feel less than human. He would attempt to make me feel worthless, that I was less than nothing. That I deserve what I was being put through. He punished me physically and verbally. Now, that's bad enough when you're doing it to a child, but a child with disabilities? Who can't even defend herself? Who doesn't know better to scream for help or tell her older brother that his girlfriend is...evil? I can put up with a lot of crap. Bullies are one thing I refuse to deal with. And no one should ever feel like they're less than nothing."

The rest of the cab ride home is silent. When they finally get to the flat, Sherlock says, "I'm sorry for what he's done and tried to do to you."

Rose smiles softly. "It's not your fault. Don't apologize. But I appreciate the thought." The two of them head inside while John stares in bewilderment. He knows that Sherlock never acts like that, caring and gentle, around anyone. He grins at how Rose is changing Sherlock, and wishes he could make the consulting detective a better man like she is.


End file.
